


Of Our Own Making

by crownorclover



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Demon Crowley (Good Omens), Human Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M, aziraphale is trans my world now, crowley has an abundance of gender meanwhile aziraphale simply cannot be bothered, crowley misunderstands how physical and metaphorical hearts work, crowley projects onto bad coffee, home is where the fussy bookseller is, meetcute but with questionable hygiene, rule one of book club is don't talk about book club, this is less of a human aziraphale au and more of a celebrate aziraphale going to therapy au, you either die repressed or live long enough to become a petty bitch
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:06:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 36,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27220195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownorclover/pseuds/crownorclover
Summary: Hell assigns Crowley to keep tabs on an American witch living in Soho. He discovers that she runs a book club out of the A.Z. Fell and Co. bookshop and figures that’s a good place to start - he certainly doesn’t go there intending to fall in love with the charming human shopkeeper.It turns out that's a fantastic motivation to work with these intended targets to disrupt the apocalypse, at least.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 32
Kudos: 60





	1. CHAPTER ONE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley gets his assignment and meets his new company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found this very old idea buried in the notes on my phone, and I'm on a Good Omens kick so here we are. I am usually more of a visual artist so I'm going to try and add a quick drawing to each chapter for fun. Quality may vary.
> 
> I follow some of the main story, from the TV show and the book, while veering into complete AU territory as well! It's gonna be a ride! Also apologies for any slang/terminology I miss etc. I am Canadian and as I said Not A Writer, feel free to point em out!

—

Crowley is bored and has been so for a very, _very_ long time. It’s easy for humans to say things like ‘time flies’ with their wingbeat long lifespans, but when you’ve been kicking around for as long as he has, it can start to grate on you.

Today Crowley is dealing with his boredom by driving recklessly on the M25 - things move into place around him, which should take the edge off of the thrill but driving the Bentley is a reward in itself. He’s just hitting his stride, darting around a city bus to pass it on the shoulder of the road when the radio re-tunes itself in the middle of the droning of the news cycle.

‘More local news on the hour. For the weather, we’re turning it over to _Crowley. Have I heard this correctly? Have you asked for an assignment?_ ’

Crowley tries to sound pleasant as he aggressively cuts off a lifted truck. “You heard right. And who may I ask is speaking?”

They make a sound like Crowley’s reply won them a bet or several. ‘ _Dagon, Lord of the Files checking in. We’re more than happy to give you the assignment, of course. You’ve done quite inspired work for us in the past, after all_.’

“S’ppreciated.”

‘ _Still, it’s a shame to see you’ve lost your creative streak._ ’

Crowley narrowly avoids rear ending a compact car by swerving in front of a minivan full of kids on their way to soccer practice, and honks furiously at them for driving in the fast lane - the damned _fast lane_ \- before he cuts back in front.

“I wouldn’t say _that_.”

 _‘You’ve still got some ideas up your sleeve then, have you?_ ’

“Oh, yes. Just tucked up in there, yeah.”

He _does_ , but they’re mostly in the minor to major inconvenience category, not the grand history making kind that Dagon is imagining. He’d never needed to bother with grand. To stay in the good books (metaphorically of course, because Hell doesn’t actually have those) all he’d ever needed to do is take credit for a fraction of the wickedness humans dream up for each other - which he does. Shamelessly.

He doesn’t mind doing so most of the time - practicing sloth, obviously, good form - which means he can count on one hand the number of times he’d _asked_ for an assignment. But Hell keeps tabs on people of interest, and what he wants is to find someone interesting. He hadn’t had someone entertaining to argue with for years.

Ages.

Not that he was lonely - sort of. He doesn’t agree with the spirit of the word lonely to describe himself, per se, even if he _had_ spent the last six thousand years more or less alone and _was_ very much over it.

Still, there was no need to get pedantic.

“Give me a target, Dagon. No priests or anything like that, please - too easy.” Too dull.

‘ _Of course. You’ll receive your assignment momentarily - hopefully it proves challenging enough for you._ And now we’re going to Tim with the road report. Tim?’

‘Rough day on the M25 again, I’m afraid, Lisa.’

The radio clicks off as Crowley considers the information freshly seared into his brain. Keep tabs on an American witch? That sounded promising.

Plus, he wouldn’t have to commute far.

Crowley commits a u-turn so impossible that it’s technically legal as, very reasonably, no one thought they’d need to write a law about it. The Bentley gracefully clears the motorway divider and screeches onto pavement as he makes his way toward his new destination. He’s certain he shaves a second or two off the lifespan of anyone that witnesses the alarming stunt, and that’s just a job well done, isn’t it?

—

A few days later the only progress Crowley has made is a lovely drive through the countryside and drinking approximately twenty cups of coffee over numerous trips to a small 24 hour cafe in Soho.

He was given the wrong address. Apparently his target had moved from the picturesque cottage she was renting in the quaint village of Tadfield, choosing instead to move into a dingy flat in Soho with her boyfriend. Leave it to Hell to have outdated intel.

He had spoken to a local near the beautiful cottage during his trip. Said local referred to himself as the village watch and was all too happy to bemoan Anathema’s choice of partner, and her moving to the city, and the fact that she even moved in next to the crummiest coffee shop in all of London, apparently, to top it all off.

Crowley had been pleased with himself for finding a solid lead and had left for Soho right away. Regrettably, the village gossip was right about the coffee, which Crowley discovered via the aforementioned twenty cups. He hadn’t planned to drink so many but he reasoned that the little cafe was doing Hell’s work serving such an awful product. He was simply doing his part by (sinisterly) supporting the small local business.

Also, he’d been getting very rude looks from the baristas who made pointed glances toward the NO LOITERING sign until he finally bought something.

Crowley had been tipped off on another landmark during his chat. Across the street from his window seat at the cafe he had a clear view of an ancient looking storefront with gold leaf lettering - A.Z. FELL AND Co. ANTIQUARIAN AND UNUSUAL BOOKS. The gossiper had griped over the shop as Anathema’s awful choice of venue for her book club because, apparently, the shopkeeper was an insufferable flake.

This, Crowley also had to agree with.

First of all, he couldn’t find the hours posted anywhere online, only a defunct webpage that likely hadn’t been updated since it launched. Secondly, when he first approached the shop and read the rambling page long hours signage on the door he’d felt like he was on the verge of discorporating. Insufferable flake felt like an understatement.

That lawless sign dictated his schedule. He showed up in the morning before 8, kept close watch until 9:30, slowly lost hope until 10, and stewed angrily until 1. Served him right for coming by on the weekend, he supposed.

Crowley tries again, taking his usual seat at the cafe on Monday at 7:50 in the morning. (It wasn’t a bank holiday. He’d checked.) He watches the door across the street as he nurses drink number twenty-something, trying to act casual, hoping in an abstract way that it will make the closed sign lower it’s guard.

8am creeps by. Crowley moodily starts on what might be coffee number thirty at 9:13, and then the closed sign flips to open.

Like a shot he’s in the doorway.

The poor shopkeeper looks shocked, maybe from Crowley’s intense expression or maybe because he had unlocked the door about a millisecond before it was thrown open and very nearly knocked him over.

“Oh! Ah, welcome to-”

“Book club,” Crowley interrupts him, very articulately.

“Um. I’m sorry?”

Crowley takes a step back, realizing he’s in the shopkeeper’s face. A handsome yet somehow offensively cherubic face. Look, if his heart starts racing a little, he’s ready to blame it on the ten cups of coffee.

“I was, uh,” Crowley grunts. “I want to… join the book club?”

He hates how uncool that sounds, but he quickly realizes that no one could really hope to look cool asking to join a book club and tries to come to peace with it.

By now the shopkeeper has retreated a few steps into the shop and Crowley passes the threshold of the door. He instantly feels an odd weight on his shoulders and the loose chain around his neck warms in response - there is so much _love_ in here.

Crowley sneezes.

To his credit the shopkeeper, while looking absolutely bewildered, passes him a tissue.

“Bless you.”

“Better not,” Crowley mutters as he takes it.

“You mentioned the book club? I’m afraid it doesn’t start until six tonight,” the shopkeeper says. “Do you know Anathema? I don’t think she’s had a new addition for some time! She does often choose very... niche material.”

“Yeah, uh, distant relation.” Crowley extends the hand he had used the tissue with and is delighted when the shopkeeper notices and wrinkles his nose. “Crowley.”

“Aziraphale,” the shopkeeper says, looking regretfully at his hand before shaking, then trying to be discreet in wiping his hand on his jacket.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley repeats. “Well then, see you at six.”

Crowley turns on his heel and makes to walk out before whipping around again.

“Before I go, what was the book for tonight?”

—

This time when Crowley finds himself back at the bookshop hours later facing the dreaded closed sign, he checks his watch, snaps his fingers, and the doors unlock and open.

His arrival is noted by the cheerful jingle of the bells on the door and when he steps inside he finally spares a moment to take in the space. He lets out a low whistle - it’s chaotic, to put it lightly. Every surface that can fit one book has ten, including so many spots on the floor that he has to watch where he walks. The only open area is below the oculus, a small circular section of calm surrounded by corridors of bookshelves branching out in every direction, filled to bursting with a patchwork of varying genres from varying ages in varying conditions.

“I’m terribly sorry, I was sure I had gotten the door.” Crowley turns toward the voice and watches Aziraphale emerge from behind one of the rows of shelves, looking incredibly put out. He’s wearing stark white gloves and ridiculously tiny glasses, which is unfortunately cute. “We are closed for the day and - oh. Crowley, was it?”

“Mhm,” Crowley hums, taking the book from under his arm and giving it a wiggle for emphasis. It was the book Aziraphale had directed him to hours earlier - directed as in sent him to another bookshop to buy. “Just here for the club. Big on books, and all.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale says, looking relieved he doesn’t have to deal with a customer. “I believe they’ve already started. Just let me get the door-”

Crowley wills the lock closed. “Oh, already got that for you. Shall we?”

He gets a peculiar look in return, but Aziraphale beckons him towards the back of the shop. “Well, this way, then.”

Aziraphale leads him to a cozy nook at the end of one of the corridors of shelves, leaving in a hurry, mentioning he is doing a sensitive repair of the binding of a very old book and please do not disturb him thank you very much.

It’s a nauseatingly fond scene. There are six people, either seated around the antique table and chairs Crowley assumes normally populate the room, or sat comfortably on pillows placed on the floor. Crowley can tell who Anathema is immediately - she has a powerful aura (witch) and is lecturing the group in an American accent (American).

“‘Scuse me,” Crowley interrupts unapologetically. “I’m here for the book club.”

Crowley smiles exaggeratedly as the group's attention turns towards him. Anathema leaps up with a gasp and rushes forward, grabbing his hand and shaking it with such vigor he almost drops the book under his arm.

“Welcome! It is so wonderful to see a new face.” She whirls around and gleefully addresses a nervous looking man in glasses. “Newt! The ad you put out online actually worked!”

Newt gives her a weak smile - the smile of someone who most definitely did not put out any online advertisements.

Crowley quirks an eyebrow as she rounds back on him. “Your timing is perfect, we have all of our regulars in attendance. I’m Anathema, the founder of the group, and that’s my boyfriend Newton - wave, honey!” Newt waves awkwardly. “Tracy and Shadwell are at the table, there.” Tracy smiles kindly and Shadwell doesn’t look up from his book which appears to be about dolphins. “And on the pillows over there are Adam and Pepper.” The kids greet him distractedly before they return to talking animatedly over a copy of today’s book.

“Crowley. Absolute treat to be here. Can’t wait. Brilliant advertising, Newton, very moving.” Newt sweats. “Don’t let me keep you.”

Anathema gestures for him to take a seat and he chooses a creaky chair in the corner, popping a leg up before he reclines noisily and observes. The kids and Newton are enraptured by Anathema, with Tracy listening politely, giving the occasional pointed look at Shadwell who is either snoring, not listening, or starting arguments about things that are at best tangentially related to the current topic.

“What do you think, Adam?”

“Round, obviously.”

“Interesting, but I do believe the point isn’t the shape, but how such questions detract from-”

“How would ye ken if it’s round or flat, any more than if it’s a… a Virgo?” Shadwell demands.

Anathema frowns. “The Earth is a Libra.”

“I think the Earth is a Scorpio,” Pepper says.

“The most misunderstood of the signs,” Tracy nods.

“Okay, we’re getting off topic here,” Anathema says firmly, obviously used to such deviations, which makes sense seeing as the next hour is entirely the same thing. Crowley doesn’t even need to instigate it. They bicker fondly on their own, like a family. He barely gets a kick out of it.

“That’s all for today,” Anathema eventually announces. “We’re going to look at the history of Atlantis text that Pepper suggested next time to supplement last week’s reading.” The kids exclaim in triumph. “Tracy, I’ll drop off my copy at your place. You kids get ready to go, okay? Me and Newt will drive you home.”

The group disperses and Crowley stands, gathering his book before turning to find Anathema waiting for him, giving him a sharp, appraising look.

“So what brings you to this particular book club, Crowley?”

Crowley shrugs. “Oh, you know. Always eager to learn.”

“Hm,” she states, as if that were a statement.

“Big on books.”

“Surely.”

“Obviously.”

“Well, Crowley. Welcome to the club.” Apparently satisfied with her judgement for the moment, she hands him a scrap of paper with the name and author of the next reading before turning away to pack up her belongings. “We’re meeting here at the same time Wednesday. Ask Aziraphale about the book, he’ll know where to get it. And,” she looks back with a stern expression, “don’t be so shy next time.”

Crowley furiously schools the indignation from his face. “Shy.”

“You barely said a word. We all know each other already and I’m sure it’s hard to join a group like that, so, good job. Speak up next time.” She gives him a firm nod before going to join the rest of the group as they greet Aziraphale on their way out of the shop.

Shy?

Crowley could laugh at the sheer disrespect. The audacity. The nerve.

Serpent of Eden, Hell’s agent, immortal demon. _Shy._

He huffs and starts his way out the door and nearly collides with Aziraphale, who looks about ready to have a heart attack when he appears around the corner. Crowley may perform a minor miracle so he doesn’t spill the hot drink he’s carrying all over the two of them.

“Oh, dear. My apologies, I didn’t realize you were still here,” he says, grip tightening on the little white mug with _angel wings_ for a handle. Crowley notices it and quietly contemplates the choices that brought him here.

Were they laughing at him Down There? Did they know? They must know, right?

“I,” Crowley says, coolly, with not even an ounce of existential dread, “need this book.”

He holds up the note, which Aziraphale tuts at. “Oh, Anathema,” he sighs. “Well, I don’t carry that particular… genre. I can give you the address of a bookshop that does, though. Give me a moment.”

Crowley follows as Aziraphale walks to the office and settles down at the desk. He pulls out an actual, physical phone book and proceeds to flip through the thing for a God-awful amount of time. Crowley starts feeling antsy. It’s the 21st century, shouldn’t that be digital by now? That would certainly be faster, and then he wouldn’t have to lurk awkwardly around this office. Should he say something? Maybe six thousand years alone had thoroughly wrecked him for human interaction. Maybe he _has_ lost his touch. Maybe -

Aziraphale clears his throat.

Drawn from his thoughts, he notices Aziraphale is holding out a note for him, which he finally takes.

“Sorry, just thinking. About,” Crowley says haltingly, “bookbinding.”

“You were thinking about bookbinding,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley pockets the paper slowly.

“Well, isn’t that lovely!” Aziraphale continues enthusiastically. Crowley relaxes. He’s lucky he’s been around long enough he has passing knowledge on the subject - Abbeys were a prime spot for tempting. “You may remember I mentioned this, but I’m actually working on one such project right now. I’m afraid the poor thing came to me in rather rough shape,” he laments.

“Shame,” Crowley says dispassionately.

Aziraphale nods solemnly before perking up. “Hot cocoa? I’d love to share the project with a fellow enthusiast.”

“Well-”

“Wonderful. Right this way!”

And so Crowley ends up spending the evening getting thoroughly schooled on bookbinding (“Goodness, what an archaic technique! Where on earth did you learn that from?” Aziraphale asks, though the question more accurately should have been _when_ on earth).

He also learns more about the shop and it’s keeper. Aziraphale explains that A. Z. Fell, the founder, is actually his some number of greats grandmother and the family business had eventually been passed on to him.

“Wait, so your name is _Aziraphale Fell?_ ” Crowley cuts in. He has his arm on the back of Aziraphale's chair, leaning over his shoulder to watch him work on the book while they chat.

He doesn’t even glance up to reply. “Yes, dear boy,” he says with the patience of a saint, or at least someone who has been asked the same thing many times before. Likely by children.

“Fell fell,” Crowley snorts to himself and Aziraphale does turn now, just to give him a _look_ , before continuing.

The building was bought and paid for many generations ago, which is why he could afford to hold such odd hours as well as apparently not actually sell anything. He mentions offhand he’d probably be better off converting the shop into a museum, how he adores every book and their history, and how he is loath to part with any of them.

He leans in conspiratorially towards Crowley, who had made his way to recline on the couch at some point, obviously pleased with himself as he tells Crowley how he had occasionally put the fear of God into potential buyers with harrowing tales of ancient texts plagued with vengeful spirits. It had worked on multiple occasions but backfired once when Newton came back the next day with his girlfriend who he claimed was a witch that could help with his ghost problem. Anathema had wandered around the store and found no vengeful spirits, but had found a few interesting occult books and would like to borrow them, please.

Crowley listens appreciatively to Aziraphale’s mundane schemes to discourage customers while feeling rather proud of himself. He’s getting useful information about Anathema and the people around her and, most importantly, he’s entertained.

“I’ve been going on for ages now, my goodness. Forgive my rudeness. Well, how about you, Crowley? What do you do?”

“Public relations.”

Crowley is fairly certain that in six thousand years no one has ever laughed directly in his face like this.

When Crowley pretends to look affronted Aziraphale covers his mouth, looking horrified at his own reaction. “I’m sorry, was that not a joke?”

Crowley brings a hand to his chest dramatically. “What, are you suggesting I lack the people skills?”

“No, not at all!” Crowley’s mouth quirks as he watches Aziraphale try to save face. “I, I am simply suggesting that while I am sure you have many skills, perhaps a person, not me necessarily, would imagine after speaking to you for some amount of time that those skills are not of a kind that generally leads to a career with an emphasis on dealing with people, and also - of being personable,” he blurts painfully.

Crowley breaks and cackles. Aziraphale looks surprised, and then scandalized, realizing his act.

“Oh, that’s _rude_.”

“Uh huh. I seem to recall that you’re no angel, either. Who was lying about evil spirits to keep their coveted books safe?”

“Maybe so,” Aziraphale sniffs primly, “but certainly preserving history must be of some value. Is wisdom not a virtue?”

Crowley scoffs. “Nah, no one’s looking for that Up There.” He leans back on the couch, grinning lazily as he regards the other man. “Greed certainly looks good on you, though, _angel_.”

Aziraphale sputters.

This assignment was certainly off to a promising start.

—

Crowley mostly observes at the first few book club meetings, quietly filing away information about the dynamic of the group and the particularities of each member. Anathema makes a point to talk to him after meetings, still of the mind she’s drawing him out of his shell.

“What did you think about the reading tonight?”

“I know it can take some time to open up when you’re new.”

“I think you had a good point, did you want to say more about it?”

She’s so aggressively thoughtful that Crowley wonders vaguely if Hell sent him to not just the wrong address, but to the wrong person entirely.

A few weeks into the assignment, Anathema approaches him as usual after the day’s meeting wraps up.

“So, Crowley. How are you finding it now that you’ve joined us for a few meetings?” Anathema asks. “You’re still rather quiet.”

“Ah, well. You know me. So shy,” Crowley drawls. “Lovely material though. I was quite intrigued by the expanded history of Sir Joshua Device we discussed. It wasn’t in the reading, was it?”

“No, it wasn’t,” Anathema says, looking pleased. “Distant relation, actually. My family is a little obsessive about keeping records. Luckily they were all very eccentric so it’s pretty entertaining to read.”

“Eccentric?” Crowley tuts. “Well. I suppose that lines up with a tale I heard about a witch being dragged into the shop for an exorcism.”

Anathema chuckles at the memory. “He _still_ doesn’t believe that I’m a witch.”

“Many witches in your family, then?”

“Oh, yes. And we’re quite good. Though much of it is an art, not a science,” she says. “I even got a weird vibe off of you at first.”

“Oh?” Crowley asks stiffly.

“Aziraphale likes you though, so you’re probably fine,” she snorts. Crowley relaxes. “He’s a good judge of character. Even if he doesn’t believe witches are a thing.”

“Too bad that good judgement doesn’t extend to the occult,” Crowley replies cheerfully.

Anathema is more perceptive than he gave her credit for. He’d have to be careful with that. For now, however, he’d snaked his way into the group’s good graces thanks to Aziraphale. He’s lucky that he vouched for him, really, even if he is disgruntled that as many as two people think of him as _nice_ and _shy_. It’s undignified.

—


	2. CHAPTER TWO

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley establishes an agreeable arrangement that might actually be a date and drinks even more coffee.

It’s really very easy to fall into this new rhythm. He doesn’t go to every gathering of course, because that might look suspicious and it’s not like he _cares_ about a _book club_. He’s not even a little sore about it when he misses them - the meetings, not the people. Obviously.

Crowley is quick to discover that attending a book club two-sometimes-three times a week means that you read quite a lot of books. He finds himself a frequent patron of not just Aziraphale’s, but one other peculiar bookshop.

He looks for the more occult and conspiracy texts at the _other_ bookshop. The elderly owners offer Crowley a ‘fatty spliffer’ once and Crowley complains to Aziraphale about it for a week - mainly about the verbiage. He tries to convince him to carry Anathema’s books, but Aziraphale firmly does not and never plans to carry the rather esoteric literature that Anathema often chooses. Thankfully, they also frequently analyze historic and religious texts.

Crowley particularly enjoys these readings for a few reasons - one being that he is very good at starting arguments about those particular subjects. Another reason he enjoys those readings is because Aziraphale has a fantastic variety of religion and history books, which means he doesn’t have to go to the other bookshop, and also leads to the establishment of a very agreeable arrangement between the two of them.

The first time Crowley asks if Aziraphale has a particular book in stock that he does in fact have in stock, he looks ill. 

“You don’t want to _buy_ it, do you?” 

Crowley rolls his eyes. “What, and steal from your hoard? I could never.”

Aziraphale lights up. “Oh, I’m so glad.”

“I would like to _read_ it, though.” Crowley watches Aziraphale’s face fall. “Come on, angel. Are books not meant to be read? Knowledge not meant to be had?”

“It’s a very old book,” Aziraphale frets, “and potentially fragile. Oh, I’m sorry, I just worry about them.”

He wrings his hands as he considers what to do, and Crowley witnesses him go on a very fascinating… well, the only term for it could be ‘face journey.’ His eyes narrow in thought, then he blinks and they widen as if he found an answer to his own question, and when he finally looks back at Crowley, smiling a little coyly, he’s _blushing_. 

It’s offensively charming, honestly.

“Perhaps - perhaps you could come by the shop sometime and I could read it to you. That way I can handle the book myself, you see.”

Crowley regards him with intrigue. Aziraphale isn’t his target but he does own the shop where he most often meets with Anathema, which potentially allows him greater access. Certainly he could spin that as a logical reason to accept such an invitation. It isn’t technically a distraction then, he reasons. 

And anyway, who was he to deny a spot of temptation?

“Alright. Sounds fine.”

Aziraphale looks incredibly pleased with that answer and licks his lips before continuing on, “Though, it can be rather difficult to read out loud for long periods, of course. It would be lovely if you brought something for us to drink - so I don’t get parched, you see.”

Crowley grins and inclines his head in a deferring gesture. “Of course. How thoughtless of me not to offer.”

“I forgive you, dear,” Aziraphale says, all smiles at Crowley’s response. “Assuming you bring wine. I’m partial to a dry red, myself. Oh, perhaps something French, with a touch of garrigue. Though I wouldn’t turn my nose up to any favorites you might want to share.”

“Noted.”

Thus the arrangement is made and Crowley finds himself spending a few nights a week in one of the many cluttered nooks of Aziraphale’s bookshop, reclining lazily while Aziraphale reads to him. They often enjoy a drink or three as Aziraphale reads. It would be very suspicious to let him drink alone, Crowley reasons. And rude. He’s a demon, not an _animal._

—

Since taking this assignment Crowley predictably finds himself spending quite a lot of time in Soho. He visits the cafe across from the bookshop often, and before long he can bypass the cash entirely and head directly to the drink counter to find his order (dark roast, black) waiting for him.

Sometimes he picks it up on his way in, but if he’s already at the shop, he figures he may as well ask if Aziraphale wants anything. Usually it’s a no, thank you, but this time Aziraphale perks up when he asks.

“Oh! Give me a moment and I’ll come with,” he says, “I’m afraid I forgot to pick up tea the last time I was out.”

So they go together. Crowley expects him to get in line but Aziraphale walks directly to the drink counter and sure enough there’s two cups there - his own and one other labeled A. FELL, which Aziraphale takes without hesitation, thanking the staff by name and leaving change in its place.

Crowley looks sidelong at Aziraphale’s cup as they head back to the bookshop and clicks his tongue thoughtfully.

“Now, how can you never stop in and yet they know your name and order?”

“Oh, it’s not so strange. I’ve been here since long before they opened, after all. I brought a homemade hazelnut torte for the staff on their opening day, you know.” Aziraphale sighs dreamily at the memory, which Crowley imagines is less about the opening and more about the torte. “Anyway, perhaps a better question is,” he gestures at Crowley’s cup, “how can you go there nearly every day and they spell your name like _that?”_

He eyes the name COWWLEY scribbled across his cup. There's a tiny smiley face underneath. “It’s been so long now I can’t bring myself to correct them,” he admits regretfully.

(It was better than the other place that always spelt it CRAWLEY, anyway.)

They head back across the street and get comfortable in the office. Aziraphale settles in with the book they plan to read and takes a long sip of his drink, exhaling in bliss. Crowley takes the last swig from his cup and coughs on the dregs.

“Can’t believe they can live with themselves, serving this stuff,” he grumbles. “S’like dusty tar.”

“And yet you order it every time. You are aware there are many different items on the menu, correct? All of which are infinitely better than their coffee?” Aziraphale taps his cup and adds, “I'd recommend the earl grey latte in particular, it’s quite good. So few places let the tea steep long enough.”

“Let’s see, then.”

Aziraphale blinks as Crowley nips the cup from his hand and takes a sip.

“Hm. Not bad.” He holds it out and Aziraphale takes it back, looking at the cup, then Crowley, and back. Crowley notices and smirks slyly, adding, “Very sweet.”

“What? Oh. E-extra syrup,” Aziraphale stammers before hesitantly bringing the cup to his lips - deliberately breaking eye contact as he does.

The next time Crowley goes to the cafe he gets in line, amends his order, and from then on he has two cups waiting for him. He still orders the coffee for himself - perhaps it’s grown on him, perhaps it’s sheer stubbornness, or perhaps it’s because Aziraphale is gracious enough to share some of his own drink whenever he complains about it. Which he does, often.

Occasionally the club gets a round of drinks before meetings. The kids order hot chocolates with whip (Adam miraculously always gets extra), Tracy a green tea with a dash of honey, Newt a decaf mocha, a black dark roast for Shadwell, and a Himalayan chai for Anathema, which he’s never heard of before but is assured is quite good. Plus, the usual for himself.

“You know the coffee is basically the only bad thing on the menu, right? You could order literally anything else and actually enjoy yourself,” Anathema says when she sees Crowley smack his lips in displeasure at his drink.

“So I’ve been told. Though, it can’t be all bad if I’m not the only one drinking it,” he says, gesturing towards Shadwell. Despite how he complains, he has an absurd loyalty to this horrific coffee so he’ll take what backup he can get.

Though he doesn’t love that Shadwell and him order the same thing - he likes to think his choice of drink is rather modern, in a stylish way, and it doesn’t bear thinking about how their matching orders reflects upon himself.

Shadwell rolls his eyes. “I dinnae drink that tar.”

“Is that so? Ordered that for me, then?”

Shadwell pops the lid off of his cup and fishes through his jacket, pulling out a sugar packet that looks as if it’s literally been through Hell. Crowley wrinkles his nose as Shadwell smugly pours it into his coffee and picks a piece of lint out of his drink. And then repeats the process eight more times. Crowley isn't sure if he should be comforted by or horrified at how unrecognizable the drink is.

“Some of us have standards, laddie.”

“I see. You’re right. Of course. Now, care to inform me why you have nine sugar packets that look about a hundred years old on your person?”

Shadwell scoffs at the boldness of assuming he only has the nine and proceeds to empty his pockets onto the table. The group grumbles as if this is not an unfamiliar occurrence as Crowley watches the pile grow with mounting awe. He feels like a vampire compelled beyond reason to count grains of rice as he goes through the pile, as if knowing the number will make it make more sense. It, in fact, makes less and less sense as he counts. Also - 153, previously 162.

(A half hour into the meeting, Shadwell pulls another 5 from a pocket he forgot to check.)

He’s a couple months in and overall, he thinks this assignment is going really rather well so far. Even if he has to read constantly and drink bad coffee and be in sometimes questionable, though admittedly generally agreeable, company.

—

One month later Crowley is still doing great and has everything under control, obviously.

He’s spending a lot of time at the shop with Aziraphale, often unrelated to their arrangement, although they continue with the private readings.

Once, Crowley complains that Aziraphale needs to speak up or move closer and in response Aziraphale nudges him to move over and sits next to him on the small couch. Crowley barely even hyper focuses on the fact that they’re sitting thigh to thigh, honestly, because he’s doing great and has everything under control, as previously established.

He’s also very cool about it when he wakes up on that couch for the first time, apparently having over imbibed the night before. He’s under a blanket and sees a cup of water on the side table next to his sunglasses that he doesn’t remember taking off.

He puts them on and sips at the water as he makes his way upstairs to greet Aziraphale. As he goes, he tries to brainstorm ways that he could argue in his defence that he’s simply practicing greed, and that he’s doing such a good job of it he probably deserves a commendation, if anything.

(Aziraphale does finally ask him about the sunglasses, and one look at Crowley’s discomfort and he doesn’t mention it again. No one in the group ever does, either.)

Okay, so maybe he’s losing the plot a little. Frankly, he’s embarrassed that he’s getting so worked up about the whole thing. He’s a demon. Surely he should feel less, in general, but in particular about these (most certainly temporary) frien- acquaintances.

 _Targets_ , he corrects himself.

Admittedly, he’s never been a stellar example of what a demon should be, despite how he presents himself. A lot of what Hell preaches is just not his style. Maybe this is a failing he has in particular, a soft spot he still carries with him despite his Fall. Something even the boiling sulphur couldn’t burn out of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shadwell drinks coffee au (definitely not because I forgot what he drinks then didn't want to rewrite it)
> 
> Thanks so much to my beautiful QPP North (Northisnotup) who is my lovely beta and is helping me figure out formatting cause apparently I'm 800 years old!! I love you!


	3. CHAPTER THREE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley finally finds the plot and manages one (1) emotional vulnerability.

The first time Crowley had visited Anathema and Newton’s third storey flat just a few blocks from the shop, he immediately gravitated towards the many potted plants overloading the balcony.

(Well, it’s less like a balcony and more like the concept of a balcony. In reality it’s a fire escape with a door leading into their kitchen.)

Upon close examination, the plants had looked nice enough, but why settle for _nice?_

He had given them a stern talking to when Anathema went inside, and on a subsequent visit he noticed some progress. Not enough. There was one insolent pothos in particular with lacklustre variegation despite getting ample southern sun - it was shameful.

He comes to the conclusion that they obviously don’t understand the gravity of the situation - don’t understand what he’s capable of - so he decides to show them. In a manner of speaking. Gravity certainly factors in, at least.

Anathema pops inside to grab drinks and she returns to Crowley gripping the railing, looking down in feigned horror.

“Oh, no,” he forces agonizingly. “Oh, what a shame. Oh, surely this could have been avoided.”

“What? What is it?” Anathema asks, alarmed by his tone. Eat your heart out, Burbage. She rushes to his side and looks down.

It’s a truly gruesome scene. Three storeys below them, potting soil, terracotta shards, and barely-two-toned leaves litter the pavement.

“You’re so dramatic. It’s not a big deal, let me get it,” Anathema assures him very graciously. As soon as she’s down the stairs, Crowley rounds on the remaining plants. He paces the balcony slowly, sneering disdainfully at the lot of them.

“ _Not a big deal_ ,” he mocks cruelly. “Did you hear that? Disposable. Replaceable. All of you.” He corners the ficus, which Anathema had complained about previously for dropping leaves every time she moved it. “I need you to know how easy that was for me. Barely even a nudge.” He rests his foot against the lip of the pot, slowly applying pressure to tip it closer to the edge. “That’s all it takes, and you’ll join your good for nothing friend.”

He abruptly removes his foot and the pot rocks dangerously in it’s saucer before coming to an unsteady stop. Anathema comes into view as she climbs the stairs, the remains of the shattered pot and tattered plant in tow. A chorus of chattering pottery breaks out as the plants recoil in fear. Anathema looks around, confused.

“What the hell is that noise?”

“Just a trolley passing by, I imagine,” Crowley answers cheerfully.

She frowns. “Weird, usually the rattling isn’t quite so bad. Anyway, do you mind helping me box this up?”

Anathema enters the flat. The smile drops from Crowley’s face all at once as he casts one last withering look around the balcony and it’s occupants, his pointed look a rather immodestly unveiled threat, before heading inside.

—

Of The Them, Adam and Pepper attend the book club meetings most often, but sometimes the entire unit shows up. Those meetings tend to be disorderly and cacophonous, or if they are behaving particularly well that day, disorderly and generally still pretty loud.

Aziraphale draws the line at having the dog in the shop at least. Small blessings. Dogs were fine, usually, but Adam’s really irked him for some reason.

He usually avoids those hectic nights or stays with Aziraphale in his office. Crowley can respect The Them’s innate skill at fomenting chaos, of course, but he avoids the headache if he can. Also, he can’t remember the names of the other two kids (Wednesday? The other one?) which is a trend that he intends to continue.

Today the whole gang attends the meeting, so with all the seats in their small car accounted for, Anathema heads home while Newt drops the kids off. Crowley joins her on her walk back to her flat, an extension of their customary post meeting conversations, and once they arrive they continue their chat on the balcony-slash-fire escape.

(The plants seem to be working much harder than the last time he was here, he notes pleasantly. He does make sure to give them an obligatory sneer when Anathema goes inside to get a jacket anyway, for good measure.)

Crowley has grown to quite like Anathema. She could be described as stubborn, persistent, and headstrong - all synonyms with their own distinct meanings, and she fits every one. It makes her fun to argue with and certainly a fiercely loyal friend, if Crowley were to refer to anyone as a friend. Which he doesn’t.

Crowley notes how long they’ve been talking and wonders how long the drive is, considering they unfortunately have to take the M25 for the turnoff to Tadfield.

“Y’know, I’m curious why you would start a book club to begin with. Seems like quite a time commitment on your part.”

“It's an excuse to get everyone together, mostly,” she says, leaning on her elbows against the railing, looking out at the street below them. “I met the kids when I lived in Jasmine Cottage. I was having a hard time adjusting to the move and they were the only ones not stuck up enough to actually talk to me at first.”

Considering the attitude of the village watch he had met on his short trip to Tadfield, that wasn’t too surprising to him. He leans his back casually against the rail, rudely swatting away the spiderettes of an overly friendly spider plant. “Very curious kids, The Them.”

“Thankfully. I didn’t realize how lonely I was until I started spending time with them.”

Crowley goes quiet at that, which Anathema takes as a cue for her to continue. “I met Newt there too when his old car broke down. It had _three wheels_. It was the biggest piece of junk,” she laughs. “Anyway, the kids found him when his engine started smoking and they brought him over. He didn’t know anyone in the area or even bring a phone.”

“What on earth brought him there, then?”

“Shadwell sent him. Well, not really. He actually _told_ Shadwell that he should send him, because there were rumors of an evil witch in Tadfield,” she says wryly, emphasizing ‘evil witch’ with a dramatic wiggle of fingers.

Crowley quirks an eyebrow. “Really.”

“Really.”

Crowley scoffs. “Newton? What would he even do if he _found_ an evil witch?”

“Cry, probably?” Anathema muses. Crowley snorts. “Shadwell is mad but he’s not all bad. Tracy keeps him in check, more or less, and she’s a joy to be around. I got a lot closer to them when I moved in with Newt but I still really missed the kids. Then I thought, wouldn’t it be even better if these great people were all together? So we started the meetings and decided on a book club - mostly for the kids. Like you said, they’re so curious.”

Anathema stares unseeing at the street, brow furrowed.

“I never told Newt this, but - I don’t know. There’s something about Adam, too,” Anathema starts hesitantly. “He’s such a smart kid and eats up any knowledge you offer him. I try to offer a sort of alternative education, and I like to think it helps them look at things a little more critically, but I’m not sure it’s enough to help him.”

She exhales uneasily and Crowley regards her curiously.

“Other than me, I think you’re the most well versed on the occult in the group. What do you know about auras?”

“Picked up a few things here and there,” Crowley answers vaguely.

“Well, another thing about Adam,” she says quietly, “is he doesn’t have an aura.”

Crowley frowns. He had never noticed one, but he’s pretty sure he’d never tried to look. Surely he’d remember that. “Everyone has an aura. Maybe it just, I don’t know, can’t be sensed.”

“Like it’s hidden?” Anathema pushes up against the railing to stand straight. “I never considered that. It would be difficult to hide your aura entirely, wouldn’t it?” She folds her arms and taps her foot pensively. “I think that might line up with another hypothesis I had, but I’m not sure it’s right.”

Crowley was kicking himself a little for getting distracted. He should have answers to these questions. This should have been easy for him. He’d been collecting information on these people for months, after all.

When he goes to the next meeting he tries to sense Adam’s aura and just can’t. It could mean that he has none, but Crowley gets the feeling that every attempt is simply brushed off, like he can’t focus long enough to get a solid reading - like there’s something about Adam that is simply too much to comprehend. Something ineffable.

He wonders if he should mention it in his reports to Hell but decides against it. Adam is a good kid and he’d rather not be responsible for getting him killed. Or, someone forbid, be assigned to do it himself.

—

Spending more time in Soho means he’s spending much less time at his own flat.

(His plants are thriving purely to spite him, looking absolutely resplendent at the lack of his attention, which is fine by him. At least they’re not slacking while he’s away. Honestly, he’s a little touched by the passive aggressive tactic.)

He becomes even more scarce when Aziraphale gives him a key to the shop. He had handed it to him, red faced, saying that this way he wouldn’t need to continuously bother him by knocking at the door when he visited in the evenings or when he came to the store ten minutes late for the book club - which was every time.

Crowley had stared at it before looking up at Aziraphale, his lip quirking. “I’m flattered, angel, but don’t you think we’re moving a bit fast?”

“Cheek,” Aziraphale had sniffed before turning on his heel and closing and locking the door in his face.

Crowley had immediately unlocked the door to Aziraphale beaming at him on the other side, and couldn’t help but grin back.

So, he's spending more time at the shop. It’s fine.

Spending time with Aziraphale is easy. Aziraphale is clever and well read and can often keep up in their discussions about history, which Crowley - who had _lived_ it - appreciates in a way he can’t quite articulate.

Crowley likes to share events and details lost or forgotten over time, things that no one alive could know. Just for him. Aziraphale is always absolutely enthralled, sometimes accepting things at face value, sometimes absolutely refusing to believe him and arguing with him about sources and the likeliness of whatever event - which is probably because to be a pest he also occasionally completely fabricates facts to tease him. He's delightfully gullible (Though despite that, he couldn’t convince him that Shakespeare's Hamlet had at first been a flop, which was actually true). They argue and discuss and talk with ease and it’s _fine_.

Sometimes while Aziraphale is working - his real work, not running the shop - absorbed in a repair or a project or just a particularly captivating book, Crowley makes himself comfortable in the same space and they spend hours like that, quietly, together.

Which is fine.

It’s one of those times - the quiet ones in the office - that Aziraphale breaks the silence in a hesitant tone.

“Crowley, may I share something personal with you?”

Crowley regards him curiously, noting that he hasn’t looked up from or stopped working on the dissected book he’s been spending most of the night repairing.

“Go ahead, angel.”

“It’s small in the grand scheme of things, but our friendship has grown important to me and - and I find myself wanting to share more of myself with you,” he starts quietly. “Aziraphale is a name I chose for myself. I realize it’s a little peculiar. I chose it in my twenties when I transitioned - I don’t even recall where I first saw it or thought it, but when I did, it felt,” he pauses for a moment and Crowley isn’t sure if he’s thinking about what he wants to say or if he’s focusing on carefully rethreading the pages of his book, “it felt good.”

He finally looks over at Crowley. “It _feels_ good, and it makes me want to do good. For myself and for others.”

Crowley considers this.

“I knew no sensible parent would name their child Aziraphale Fell,” he deadpans after a moment, and Aziraphale laughs.

“Anyway,” he adds hesitantly, “for whatever this is worth, you’ve been good to me, so that’s something.”

Aziraphale’s smile is radiant.

—

He never gets to try that greed defence he’d been working on for Hell when they contact him nearly five months into his assignment.

Crowley is in the other bookstore, the one owned by the elderly couple, tapping his finger on the front desk distractedly while he waits for them to find his book.

The debit machine chimes. Crowley ignores it. It chimes again a little louder, and then starts a low persistent tone, and he glances down to see a message he never realized he had always dreaded seeing on a debit machine until this moment.

CROWLEY

He stares at it.

CROWLEY ARE YOU THERE

He clears his throat. “Yeah, ‘m here,” he mutters.

CROWLEY SPEAK UP

Crowley runs a hand down his face in aggravation. Why couldn’t they have waited five minutes for him to be back in the Bentley? He leans in on his elbows, checking that the shopkeepers are out of earshot before speaking through gritted teeth.

“I said I’m here. And who is possessing this device?”

WE ARE THE INFERNAL AUTHORITIES

“Of... course. What is it? Bit occupied at the moment, I’m afraid.”

WE NEED YOU TO CHECK IN AT HQ

Crowley frowns.

THE POWERS THAT BE ARE NOT PLEASED WITH YOUR PROGRESS

TREAD CAREFULLY CROWLEY

PROCESSING…

PAYMENT TYPE INVALID

Crowley frowns more.

The chain around his neck starts to cool as Hell ceases communications.

By the time the owners emerge from the labyrinth of bookshelves, one triumphantly waving Crowley’s requested text on the lore of the Kraken, their customer is already gone. It’s unusual, but he’s a regular and they figure they’ll see him again soon, so they put it at the front for safe keeping - really, what’s worse is that their debit machine is on the fritz for the rest of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the au concepts are appearing..... my world now!!! Also I apologize for the silly art I thought it was VERY funny at 3am
> 
> Thanks again to my wonderful beta North (Northisnotup)!! She is fantastically skilled at writing and I am incredibly lucky to have her input!


	4. CHAPTER FOUR

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley gets detention and an invitation.

The book remains unclaimed at the front desk, and Crowley doesn’t show up to a meeting for a week.

Anathema finds it odd. Crowley has never missed a week at a time - certainly a few days here and there, he’s presumably an adult with a life outside of their book club, after all. It’s the fact that Aziraphale hasn’t heard anything from him that gets her worried.

She takes out her phone.

_Hey Crowley! Everything ok? HAven’t seen u. Scoping out some middle ages history for the club. Interested?_

It takes a few minutes, but she receives a reply.

_Business trip. I’ll be back in a week_

_Skip the 14th century. It’s garbage. You’re welcome_

There’s a short pause before another message comes through.

_Tell Aziraphale sorry for not stopping in on my way out. But if he had a phone he would have heard from me a lot sooner_

_So that’s kind of his fault when you really think about it._

_He has a cell but tbh i’m pretty sure IT’S from the 14th century, because apparently that explains what garbage it is_

_What_

_Can he even text?_

_Give him my number_

_Yea he can text if you don’t mind waiting an hour for a reply. also plss try not to sound so desperate_

_But I'll pass your number on t ohim anyway because we’re friends_

_Gross_

Anathema watches as the thinking icon comes up, disappears, and comes up again.

_Whatever thanks I guess_

_Aw ur welcome :) pal :)_

_Type better_

_:)_

Anathema pockets her phone. “Honey, are you ready to head out? It’s almost 6.”

—

Unsurprisingly, the cellular service in Hell is terrible. Crowley, however, had figured out that if he bounced a signal off enough phones across the globe he could create a sort of net that was dense in the center and acted like a personal hotspot, drawing from those thousands of connections.

(It had the added benefit of slowing down the phones of everyone attached - not dramatically, but enough to cause a satisfying amount of frustration. It was one of those minor inconveniences that he was very proud of.)

This setup had worked fairly well for him thus far, though streaming video was still a problem.

Crowley scowls deeply at the rotating circle on his screen.

Still, his mood had improved dramatically when he received Anathema’s messages. Any distraction was appreciated because Crowley was currently in Hell’s equivalent of an inspirational convention. If you were underperforming in your duties you were sentenced to attend, and generally after this initial warning the punishments get dramatically more severe. He's lucky he only got dinged, but he’s still not happy about it.

Here, the miserable spectators suffer through a full two week long non-stop event hosted by the least entertaining demon that Hell can manage to rummage up. This host spends the entire two weeks droning on about what inspires them to keep doing evil, about the unique signatures of demons and famous evildoers of the past, the psychology of human fear of the dark and how to utilize it, and other such nonsense. It’s informative, it’s torture, and it’s fucking boring.

He’s forced to attend because apparently when you are on Hell’s leaderboard of demonic acts committed against humanity - and Crowley had snaked his way onto that list after claiming so much unrest in history as his own - things are _expected_ of you, so when you take an assignment for the first time in literal ages after freelancing for so long, the powers that be tend to keep tabs.

Thus, his bad grade and the inspiration convention, literally, from Hell.

At this point the demon on stage pops a tape into a VHS player on a rickety little cart, sits down, and immediately falls asleep. Crowley squints at the 12-inch screen 100 feet away from him, estimating it’s something to do with how to properly file reports, and returns his attention to his phone. 

He’s distracted from the perpetual loading wheel by a notification which he immediately opens. His mouth twitches up in a grin when he realizes who it’s from, but it’s dark in here and no one can see, so it hardly counts.

_Dear Crowley,_

_I hope this message finds you well. I do wish you had popped in before you left and informed me of your business tr_

Another message comes through.

_Dear Crowley,_

_I hope this message finds you well. I do wish you had popped in before you left and informed me of your business tr_

Crowley snorts, and watches the thinking icon for an absurd amount of time.

_Dear Crowley,_

_It appears there is a character limit on texts. I will be brief. I miss your visits and look forward to your return._

_Aziraphale. It’s a text not a letter you don’t have to be so formal_

_I’m realizing now that it is rather impractical._

_Do you have a flip phone?? You text so slow_

_No. It is a cellular phone._

_That’s……. ok_

_Anyway I didn’t stop in before I left because I didn’t get much warning_

_I am also looking forward to partaking in the rest of that bottle of scotch when I get back._

_I do feel you owe it to me at least a little after disappearing for so long with no word._

_Well_

_Patience is a virtue, angel_

_:)_

_Oh, stuff it._

He’s in Hell, and it’s miserable and cold and dark, and he’s been sitting in the same spot for a week and the demon on stage is starting up another lecture on different methods of wing preening and the importance of feather hygiene, and he shouldn’t be having a good time, but Crowley laughs.

—

The second week drags on. Crowley’s legs are at a particularly painful stage of cramping up and he’s bored out of his mind so he‘s fomenting discontent on his phone to pass the time, as any respectable demon ignoring a mandatory lecture certainly would.

It’s mostly mundane things like moving appointments and bookings fifteen minutes later to force people to wait unexpectedly, or redirecting packages so they get delivered to the wrong address. The items will be replaced, but the person will be sore at having to wait another week or two.

Maybe one of those postponed bookings ends up getting Aziraphale a table at one of his favorite restaurants during the lunch rush, or maybe one of the packages misplaced is a new phone that gets delivered to Aziraphale’s bookshop. Who knows. It’s chaos - it’s ineffable.

—

Anathema is a witch and she’s good at what she does. She has been training her entire life under the guidance of the distinguished witches of her bloodline, studying the extensive records they left behind. She has the knowledge and what has been praised as excellent intuition.

So, she’s very concerned at the way her stomach drops when Aziraphale excitedly tells her how he managed to get a seat on the fly at the busy Italian restaurant he loves.

Even more concerning is the dark energy coming off of the package she spots on the doorstep of Aziraphale’s shop when she shows up that evening for the book club. Before she allows Aziraphale near it she takes it and tries to divinate the origin of the strangely familiar aura, which quizzically points directly downwards.

Eventually she concludes that it’s safe and Aziraphale calls the number on the parcel. They tell him it was a mistake and to just keep it, and he argues wanting to return it for so long with the uncaring customer service agent that Anathema rips the package open in front of him just to be done with it.

Aziraphale is horrified with her until he sees it’s a phone that’s much newer than his own - with an on screen keyboard - and he sheepishly accepts it and Anathema’s help setting it up.

(She wonders vaguely if she should replace her phone, too. She’s gotten bad vibes off of hers as of late, but she rationalizes that as her frustration at how slow it's been running.)

Even though the events are rather mundane, something about the energy surrounding them is setting off alarm bells in her head and she’s determined to figure it out.

—

As soon as the Hellish seminar wraps up, Crowley is out of there and hurtling down the road at irresponsible speeds in the Bentley. He checks his watch - that night’s meeting should just be concluding. The no parking zone politely rolls out of his way as comes to an abrupt stop in front of the bookshop.

The familiar chiming of bells announces his entrance and a moment later Aziraphale peeks out from his office, his face lighting up upon seeing Crowley.

“Welcome back, my dear.”

“Hey, angel. Sorry to have kept you waiting. Eaten yet?”

“Oh, I could go for a nibble. I do hope your trip went well. Perhaps we can talk about it over dinner?” Crowley shrugs noncommittally at that. “We’ll just have to wait for the meeting to wrap up, you understand.”

They are interrupted by Anathema calling from the other room. “Go on, you know these guys take forever to pack up.” The kids protest loudly. “Oh, you know I’m right. Anyway, I’ll lock up-”

She’s just making her way to the front of the shop when she freezes, her brow furrowing in unease and concentration. She scans the room, as if searching for something particularly distressing, or potentially deadly.

Her intense gaze lands on the two men at the door and Crowley tenses.

She sneezes.

“Here, babe,” Newt says, popping out from the room and handing her a tissue.

“Thanks, hon. Um.” She frowns, not quite steady after losing the footing of her thoughts. “What was I saying?”

“You were very generously offering to lock up,” Aziraphale says helpfully, “an offer I would like to accept, if you truly don’t mind.”

Anathema nods and waves her hands at them in a shooing motion, and shortly after they’re out the door.

“A skilled witch _and_ wingwoman,” Newt quips from beside her and Anathema laughs, giving his shoulder a little shove. He grins crookedly. “Alright, let’s wrangle up the kids. I’m beat.”

“Mhm. Right behind you.”

Anathema gives the front door one last lingering look before joining him in the back.

—

“Oh, that was wonderful. Absolutely scrumptious,” Aziraphale sighs blissfully, giving his stomach an appreciative pat before looking curiously at Crowley. “You barely touched your plate. Are you not a fan of sushi?”

“S’good. Just, uh, travel. Ruins my appetite.” Crowley shrugs. “You know how it is.”

“Mm. Not really,” Aziraphale admits. “I do love to eat when I travel. Experiencing regional dishes is divine.”

The truth is Crowley just doesn't care much for eating, personally, though he enjoys sharing meals with Aziraphale. It’s very endearing when he tells him excitedly about a dish and the history, technique, and ingredients that go into it.

Admittedly, he does on occasion get distracted by the other man’s shameless enjoyment of a particularly fine dish. It’s… a lot. He wonders how Aziraphale could possibly be unaware of the indecent sounds he makes (very easily - he’s busy enjoying his meal) or if it’s a ploy specifically to ruin Crowley’s life (it’s not, but it has the same effect regardless).

They’re strolling through St. James’s Park when the lamps lining the walkway flicker to life around them. Light spills across the path and into the pond, carrying across the water in fragmented, glittering bands. Aziraphale slows, turning to admire the view, and unexpectedly grabs Crowley’s sleeve with excitement.

“Crowley,” he whispers. “Those ducks are _following_ us.”

Crowley turns and to his horror there’s half a dozen ducks waddling in a line behind them. As soon as he makes eye contact they start honking expectantly and surround Crowley, flapping happily. 

“What,” Aziraphale gasps, looking back and forth between the ducks and Crowley with delight.

“Ngk.”

Crowley turns away from Aziraphale and takes advantage of the cacophony, hissing at the wretched creatures, the noise masked from the other man but the threat being very clear for the ducks as he bares horrific fangs and flicks a forked tongue at the whole cursed lot of them.

A scene of chaos erupts as the ducks retreat. Crowley smugly brushes feathers from his jacket and turns back towards Aziraphale - and surprises himself with his own bark of laughter.

The entire group of ducks is hiding firmly behind Aziraphale, keeping him between them and Crowley no matter which way he twists or steps. He looks up at Crowley in bewilderment. Crowley, finally getting control of his laughter, fondly takes Aziraphale’s arm in his, guiding him to continue along the path.

“Let’s go. I’m sure they’ll be on their way,” he turns his head slightly to narrow his eyes at the ducks, hissing quietly, “ _if they know what’s best for them_.”

The ducks immediately and loudly disperse in any direction that isn’t theirs.

“Pardon?”

“Oh, just noting what pleasant creatures they are, ducks. Just the best.”

Aziraphale gives one last look at the fleeing ducks, hums thoughtfully, then turns back to Crowley with a brilliant smile. “Did I ever tell you about these remarkable oysters I tried in Rome?”

They make their way out of the park, steadily heading back to the shop along quiet side streets while mostly discussing excellent dishes they’ve sampled from around the globe.

Crowley clicks his tongue thoughtfully. “Y’know, you’re very well travelled for owning a bookshop that specializes in not selling anything. Somehow I can’t imagine book restoration pays particularly well, either.”

He immediately thinks he made a mistake when he sees Aziraphale's face drop and is ready to backpedal when the other man speaks hesitantly.

“I’m very fortunate to have had the opportunity to travel. It’s, ah - when my parents passed, I inherited the shop as well as their savings, which started it. Truthfully, it was very little, but - well, oh, this is terrible of me-”

Aziraphale fidgets with his ring anxiously. Crowley gently places a hand on his elbow and the motion stops as Aziraphale relaxes slightly.

“Didn’t mean to dredge anything up. We can talk about something else, if you like.”

Aziraphale looks thoughtful for a moment then draws himself up straighter.

“I - I don’t think I’ve ever shared this with anyone. I’d like to, if that’s alright.”

“‘Course. If you’re sure.”

“Thank you. My family was - is - quite old fashioned. Religious. Very devout. Uptight, in short. They… well, it’s best to leave it at they disagreed with many of the choices I made in regards to how I live my life.” Aziraphale folds his arms behind his back, brow furrowed pensively. “I can’t imagine, if they had properly prepared a will, they would have left me anything at all. But they did not, and so after their deaths I was given ownership of the bookshop.”

Crowley nods slowly. “Sounds like you gained more than you lost in that case.”

“Indeed. It took me quite some time to come to peace with feeling that way, but it’s easier now - and I’m quite reassured of it every time one of my blasted cousins comes by the shop and tries to convince me to _return_ it,” Aziraphale scoffs.

Crowley scowls. “Really. Does that happen often?”

He’d like to meet one of those cousins one day, he thinks. Make them regret ever having existed, let alone harassing Aziraphale.

“Not anymore,” Aziraphale says, grinning dryly. “Not since the last time they showed up when Anathema was visiting. Apparently miserable fundamentalists don’t take kindly to witchcraft. I played along and - oh, it was glorious. I’ve never seen Gabriel trip over his feet like that.”

Aziraphale's face clouds in reverie, as if remembering a closely cherished memory. Crowley watches him fondly, and when Aziraphale finally meets his gaze again and notices, he clears his throat and hurriedly looks away.

“Ah. Um. What was I saying? Oh, yes, travel. Like I said, I received a small inheritance as well. After spending my life under their feet, I - I wanted nothing more than to completely blow it on something entirely self indulgent,” Aziraphale admits.

“So, you travelled.”

“Well, I paid for my top surgery first. To really, ah, _stick it to them_.” Crowley cackles at that and Aziraphale looks heartened. “It’s not too terrible of me, I hope,” he simpers, trying not to look pleased with himself.

“That’s exactly the level of petty I love to see, angel.”

Crowley is delighted to watch the blush bloom on his face in response.

“Well, lots of travel after your surgery, then?”

“Ah, well. Not all at once - the inheritance didn’t go far. I very quickly had to fund it myself. I’ve had plenty of time to make it work, though - I’m no spring chicken, you know.”

“Plenty of time? Same way as me, then.”

Aziraphale scoffs. “You? How old are you, mid forties?”

Crowley shrugs with a guileful smile. “I’m no spring chicken, as they say.”

“Sounds like something someone in their mid forties would say,” Aziraphale grumbles.

“Is that so? Strange, didn’t-”

“I’m forty-nine!” Aziraphale blurts with anguish, as if he is admitting something very embarrassing and not something very unremarkable. “I’m not even in my mid forties anymore. I’m in my late-late-forties. I’m basically,” he pauses dramatically, “dust.”

Crowley snorts. “Late-late-forties? As opposed to, what, mid-late forties?”

“Yes!” Aziraphale exclaims. “Obviously! Forty-four is your early-mid-forties, forty-five is your mid-mid-forties, forty-six is your late-mid-forties, and so on.”

“I admit, I never took you for the type to get so hung up about age.”

“Well, look at this,” Aziraphale sighs, running a hand mournfully through his white hair. “Grazing fifty and this is what I’ve got to look forward to. It went white in my early-mid-forties, you know.”

“Forty-four.”

“Yes, that’s what I said.”

Crowley shakes his head with fond exasperation and turns to reply to Aziraphale. His train of thought is violently derailed as his gaze is drawn beyond him to a flickering digital sign displayed on the side of a shop.

It’s an advertisement for some fitness gear featuring the image of a model running side on, the word FOCUS prominently dashed across the image behind them. Anyone else would have missed it but he knows that - for a moment - his name had been there as well.

FOCUS CROWLEY

“Crowley?”

His attention snaps back and he blinks rapidly as he gains his bearings. He’s surprised to find that they’ve already made it back to the shop and Aziraphale is a few paces ahead of him, waiting on the front steps.

“Sorry. Just thinking,” he mutters in response as he takes a few slow steps to catch up, stopping at the foot of the stairs. He ruminates on the message he just received, staring unseeing at the pavement.

“I’ve been thinking as well,” Aziraphale says softly. Something in his tone makes Crowley look up from his feet. “I did miss you, you know. It - it struck me how much I’ve come to treasure our time together after you left. The bookshop felt rather empty in your absence.” He licks his lips nervously and adds, “Crowley, dear…”

His face is flushed, the hand holding his key is trembling lightly, and his intention is abundantly clear when he says,

“Would you like to come inside?”

Oh.

Crowley must have been staring for too long because Aziraphale’s small smile falters and he breaks eye contact, turning to busy himself with unlocking the door. “Just - just for a drink, obviously. If that’s what you want.”

Oh, he’s _tempted._

Then he remembers the damned message.

“Angel,” Crowley manages painfully, “I can’t. It’s- work-”

Aziraphale turns back, his smile back with a shaky confidence. “I understand, dear boy. I had a lovely time tonight, and I hope it can happen again sometime, whatever the circumstance.”

“Yeah. Me too,” Crowley says wretchedly. “I’ll, uh. I’ll just be popping along, then.”

“Mind how you go.”

Aziraphale enters the shop and closes the door gently. He hears the soft click of the lock.

Crowley stands for a few long, quiet moments at the foot of the stairs, watching the spot where Aziraphale had been. He sighs in frustration and moodily shoves his hands in his pockets, and his copy of the shop key brushes against his hand.

He rocks on his heels, looks around slowly, takes a deep breath, and walks away.

Aziraphale, hearing his retreating steps, stops waiting for the lock to turn.

—

They’ve just dropped the kids off and are on their way home when Anathema broaches the subject.

“I felt a weird aura coming off of Crowley when he came in tonight,” she says, glancing over at Newt to gauge his reaction.

“Okay,” Newt nods slowly. “Like, bad weird? More weird than the first time?”

Anathema frowns, recalling the feeling she had back at the bookshop. She had heard Aziraphale and Crowley talking, had gone to offer to close and then - then she felt it, as she passed the threshold of the doorway. It was a dark presence invasively filling the space and Crowley was undoubtedly the origin.

“Yeah. Bad weird.”

Newt hums thoughtfully. “He didn’t seem any different to me. Quiet, maybe. But,” he glances at Anathema, “I’m not the witch, here.”

“Maybe I made a mistake,” she says.

She hoped she was wrong, but she knew she wasn’t.

Newt puts a hand on her knee, and she takes it in her own. It’s not very comforting, but at least his hand is warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I mention that this fic is 100% self indulgent??
> 
> Thanks again to North (Northisnotup) for being my lovely beta!


	5. CHAPTER FIVE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley shares some secrets.

Crowley has many skills. He’s proud of his sense of style, his interior decorating, and he’s quite good at cooking despite not needing to eat, partly due to his penchant for purchasing every shiny new kitchen gadget he sees that he doesn’t already own - you can only own so many before you eventually start to use them.

(Baking is another issue. He’s awful at that and hasn’t tried since 1666 when his last attempt went so horribly, the ensuing carnage was counted on his tally in Hell.)

He’s been developing another of his skills quite a lot recently - self sabotage.

It’s been progressing swimmingly, which is more than he’d like.

He supposes that’s the point.

Crowley had been hoping that upon his return he’d easily fall back into the rhythm his life had taken for the past few months, but everything was off. He’s aware he’s potentially being watched - this, plus his rejection of Aziraphale, leaves him feeling awkward around the other man. Aziraphale senses Crowley’s stiffness and gives him space - probably misconstruing his behavior as discomfort over Aziraphale’s invitation, Crowley realizes miserably.

He can’t even make it look like he’s making progress on his assignment because Anathema has been avoiding him since his return, leaving after meetings without their routine chat. The group picks up on this tension, the kids in particular, and the whole aura surrounding the shop starts to feel different.

He had asked for this assignment and now here he was, in a hell of his own making, so to speak.

This particular evening he decides to deal with his critical fumbles in the way that any demon who has spent all together too much time on Earth would - irresponsible amounts of alcohol.

“Angel,” he laments drunkenly that night. The book Aziraphale had been reading was long past gently closed and tucked away, the two of them now sitting on the floor against the couch drinking a dry red that was definitely agreeing with Crowley.

“Hm?”

Crowley bumps his shoulder against Aziraphale’s. “Do you know- is it- why is Anathema avoiding me?”

He doesn't mean to sound pathetic when he says it, but he does, and can’t even bring himself to be mad about it because in response Aziraphale pats Crowley’s knee pityingly and then doesn’t pull away. As it turns out, he’s not above greedily accepting pity when it comes from Aziraphale.

“Try not to take it too personally, my dear. You know how superstitious she is.”

Crowley screws his face up. “Superstitious.”

“I’ll admit I was surprised when she came to speak with me about it,” Aziraphale frowns. “She seems to think you have some ‘sinister aura’ or whatever other nonsense going on.”

It takes a moment but once the meaning registers, Crowley groans in exasperation. He should have known that when he came back Anathema would be able to sense Hell on him - he’d more or less marinated in it for two weeks. But he had wanted to get back to the shop and he didn’t _think._

“I know, I know, it’s all rubbish,” Aziraphale says. “I told her as much. I said, Crowley can be a wily sort of troublemaker, but he’s kind, deep down.”

“M’not,” Crowley grumbles.

“You are,” Aziraphale argues, “when it counts.”

Crowley sneers like he just read something offensive.

“You’re too hard on yourself.”

“Nah. I’m fine, great even. S’just realistic.”

“Well. Agree to disagree.”

Crowley shrugs. He goes to refill their glasses and notices Aziraphale’s drink untouched on the floor, and calculates that he is approximately far too drunk right now.

Which could possibly explain why his face is so warm.

He leans back, propping an arm on the couch to steady himself, sipping his wine despite his realization a second before while eyeing Aziraphale’s hand still on his knee. Maybe Aziraphale notices because he pulls away and folds his hands in his lap.

“Oi.”

“Yes?”

“Put it back,” Crowley mumbles forlornly as if he’s talking about a long lost friend, patting the knee where Aziraphale’s hand had been.

After a moment of consideration Aziraphale rises and offers his hand to Crowley - which he takes without hesitation - and he’s pulled suddenly to his feet. He lurches unsteadily, leaning heavily into Aziraphale’s shoulder with a displeased groan.

“Rude angel. Dirty trick.”

Aziraphale tuts. “I believe you’ve had quite enough for tonight.”

“I’m fi-ine,” Crowley draws out dramatically.

He lets go and tries to stand on his own, immediately losing his balance and falling backwards onto the couch.

“Ignore that,” he grunts.

Aziraphale looks down at him sympathetically. “Sit tight and I’ll fetch you some water.”

Crowley grumbles but relents and tries to make himself comfortable. He reaches behind him and gropes blindly for the blanket but ends up knocking it behind the couch, so instead he reaches out and pulls Aziraphale’s jacket off the desk chair and drapes it over himself as much as he can. With a yawn he deposits his glasses onto the floor and closes his eyes, settling into the cushion.

He can hear Aziraphale’s steps falter as he rounds the corner.

“May I come in? I’ve brought your water,” he says softly.

“‘Course. S’not my house, why ask,” Crowley mumbles drowsily.

“I’m simply concerned about the, ah, state of your undress.”

With a statement like _that_ , all at once Crowley is alert and increasingly concerned he’d done something humiliating that he can’t remember. He hurriedly runs through a mental list, in order of highest importance for retaining your dignity - trousers, check. Shirt, check.

Alright, things were already looking up.

He wiggles his toes for good measure - socks, check. What in the hell - oh. His _sunglasses_.

The shock hits him ( _how_ could he risk exposing his damned _snake eyes_ , humans _really_ do not like those) and his eyes widen in surprise ( _how_ could he forget himself like that) - and then he sees Aziraphale, and Aziraphale sees him.

And then he doesn’t see much of anything because his hands fly up to cover his face and he’s screwing his eyes shut tight.

“Uh.”

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale starts, and he sounds distressed _._

Fuck.

He really wishes that he wasn’t so wasted right now (and later will wish he hadn’t been so drunk he forgot he could just sober up).

“Ngk. Let me explain-”

“I am so sorry,” Aziraphale continues desperately. “I never meant to overstep, oh, I should have left-” and while Crowley can tell he’s panicking, he’s fairly certain it’s not for the reason he anticipated a moment earlier.

“You’re not, uh,” Crowley mumbles around his hands, “you’re not scared.”

“Of _course_ not,” Aziraphale breathes, and it sounds so earnest that Crowley can’t help but believe it.

He hesitantly lets his hands fall. “Oh. I was just- I thought you’d- most people don’t-” He can hear Aziraphale taking careful steps forward. “I mean, it’s - it’s whatever. It’s - okay?”

Aziraphale sits gingerly on the edge of the couch. “Yes, it is.” He rests a hand on Crowley’s shoulder. “Are you?”

Crowley opens his eyes slowly, gaze firmly on the floor. “I think?”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says softly. “Please. It’s okay.”

Well, if Aziraphale says so -

With some effort, he pushes himself up to sitting and he meets Aziraphale’s gaze, and Aziraphale meets his.

Crowley watches his expression cautiously. It’s curious for a moment as if seeing something abstract, then quickly develops into the acknowledgement of accepting a fact, then on to warmness as Crowley is embraced wholly, without question.

“It was an accident,” Crowley says. He knows what he means (he had never meant to Fall, never meant for his questions to damn him to be an eternally, always, forever unforgivable demon) but he’s drunk and he couldn’t communicate it if he tried, even if he wanted to, so Aziraphale comes to his own conclusions and nods.

“Thank you for your trust.”

Aziraphale smiles a profoundly tender smile that crinkles the edges of his eyes and he leans in and kisses his cheek, a quick peck, and immediately all of the guilt that Crowley had felt in his presence melts away, and he realizes how irrational it had been to worry at all - how Aziraphale, while he can be a bastard, and selfish, and a hypocrite - how he is fundamentally a being of _love_.

Crowley is brought back to the present by a large glass of water being pressed into his hands.

He drinks it slowly as Aziraphale lectures him about pacing himself.

His sunglasses stay on the floor.

—

Crowley had his suspicions, but he hadn’t fully pieced together why Anathema had been avoiding him until Aziraphale detailed their talk. He realizes now it’s past time he speak with her, even if only to curb this unfortunate ‘sinister aura’ business, and decides to do it after the next meeting in a few days' time.

(Despite this commitment, he still hasn’t entirely figured out how he's going to address the issue. His notes app currently reads, ‘I’m just a supernatural entity sent to collect information about you which sounds bad in hindsight, sorry about that, but I was just wondering if you might do me a favor and not perform an exorcism on me so I could continue to lurk around this bookshop until Hell realizes I’m not doing my job and then I’ll be out of your hair forever probably,’ which he realizes needs some more workshopping.)

The night of the meeting, Aziraphale and Crowley are just stepping into the shop after going out for dinner when Aziraphale’s phone buzzes as he locks up behind them. His face falls when he glances at the message.

“Ah,” he says.

“Ah?” Crowley repeats.

Aziraphale looks at him, expression strained. “It appears the meeting is cancelled today.”

“Ah,” Crowley says.

Aziraphale watches Crowley’s mood plummet. “I’m so sorry, dear. I know you were hoping to speak with her,” he sighs. “How about - how about you stay and I can read something for us! A nice, well written distraction. None of that rubbish about secret tunnels or whatever it was you were going to discuss.”

Crowley considers his options.

He considers how he’s behind on his assignment, considers that he’s been reprimanded once already and how it will certainly only get worse. Considers that he probably can’t make progress if his target is suspicious of him, and how he should deal with that swiftly.

Lastly he considers the man standing in front of him, fidgeting with his ring, watching him hopefully.

“Yeah,” Crowley says. “That sounds alright.”

The way Aziraphale’s face lights up is almost worth his certain extinction, he thinks.

They take their usual spots with drinks in hand. Crowley settles in, eyes sliding closed as he listens to the gentle flip of pages. Aziraphale clears his throat softly and starts to read.

Halfway through the book, Aziraphale quietly joins him on the couch before picking up where he had left off. Crowley doesn’t mind. He’s comfortable and warm and Aziraphale doesn't complain about Crowley’s arm draped over the back of the couch.

They’re counting their drinks on both hands by the time they finish up, and Aziraphale stands unsteadily to put the novel away. Crowley grumbles at the loss.

“M’dear, you get needy when you’re in a mood, did you know that?”

“Nah. S’just cold as Hell in here.”

Aziraphale stumbles on his way back to the couch and Crowley snorts in amusement.

“Hey. Hey. Wasn’t it you saying to pace myself? Just th’other day.”

Aziraphale pretends to think about it. “Mm, can’t recall. Anywho - I’ve got just the thing for you, look!”

Aziraphale pulls off the blanket thrown over the back of the couch (which Crowley had searched for for two days after he had drunkenly dropped it) and clumsily lays it over the both of them.

“Better?”

“Yeah. Warm. S’nice,” Crowley nods. Aziraphale beams at his response.

“Oh, good,” he sighs contentedly and shifts closer, settling in under Crowley’s arm still draped over the back of the couch, and leans into his shoulder, gently nosing the fabric of his shirt.

Crowley goes stock still at the contact. Now he feels a little too warm _plus_ he’s growing increasingly concerned at the way his heart seems intent on beating itself out of his chest. Sure, Crowley would technically live without it, but his corporeal form appreciates having and using one, he’s pretty sure. (That’s what he had heard, anyway, so that’s how it was.)

“M’glad you stayed. Glad you’re here,” Aziraphale murmurs, then turns his head and presses his lips to Crowley’s neck, softly and deliberately.

Now he’s absolutely certain he’s on the verge of discorporating.

Crowley sobers up.

“Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale lifts his head to look up at Crowley, smiling very sweetly. It’s a lot to deal with, even sober. Crowley gives him a soft flick on the tip of his nose, so soft that Aziraphale doesn’t even flinch, but that lovely smile is replaced with a confused frown, which he’s better equipped to deal with.

“Ow?”

“It’s late. Let’s get you some water. Come on.”

Aziraphale pouts but stands when Crowley takes his arm in his, offering some stability as they head upstairs. He leads Aziraphale to his room where he promptly drops onto the bed, intentionally ignoring Crowley as he tries to help him out of his jacket. He can tell it’s intentional because the bastard is _laughing_ and failing horribly at hiding it.

Crowley screws his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing in irritation.

“Sit up, Aziraphale.”

“Ask nicely,” he says.

“I’m not _nice_ ,” Crowley growls. “Shut up and let me help you.”

Aziraphale smiles as if he couldn’t have hoped for a better answer and allows Crowley to help him out of his coat. Crowley folds it badly, because he’s mean, and also evil.

He goes to get a glass of water and when he comes back Aziraphale is dozing, so he places it on the nightstand. When he turns to leave, Aziraphale catches his hand and mumbles something to him sleepily.

Crowley doesn’t make it out, and he doesn’t ask.

—

The next morning Crowley is sitting in the kitchen, leaning back in his chair, legs crossed and feet propped up on the dining table. He slowly nurses a coffee and stares at the message he’s been trying to write for Anathema (and has only succeeded at overthinking for the past six hours) when he hears a groan from the hallway.

He glances up to see Aziraphale, possibly the most dressed down he’s ever seen him - meaning he’s wearing the same style he usually wears, even the bowtie, minus the coat and vest. His sleeves are rolled up, though, which Crowley thinks is a very good look.

Oh, right, and the poor man looks ill. He’s leaning into the wall with one arm, his forehead resting against it, looking incredibly pathetic.

“Morning, angel.”

He gets a grumble in response as Aziraphale moves into the room. Even in his sorry state he swats Crowley’s feet off the table, grumbling ‘barbaric’ under his breath before he sits heavily in the chair across from him and buries his head in his hands.

“Feeling a little over hung today, are we?” Crowley asks cheerfully.

“Little.”

“You know what'll help with that?”

“Death,” Aziraphale mumbles into his hands.

“Coffee,” Crowley replies.

“That’s _worse_ ,” Aziraphale whines.

Crowley rolls his eyes and stands, grabbing a mug from the cupboard - not Aziraphale’s favorite mug, the one with the little wings, partly because he hates it and partly because it’s very endearing, which he also hates - then pops it into the coffee machine.

He had bought the coffee maker after Aziraphale gave him a key to the bookshop. Aziraphale had balked when he showed up with the huge, sleek machine. Crowley did have to admit it looked out of place. It was the only thing on the entire floor with a screen, had about 50 buttons, and it sang a little jingle when you made a selection and when it was done brewing. He thought it was neat.

Aziraphale had shown his displeasure for the metal monstrosity (his words) on his counter by passive aggressively buying a large bag of coffee beans from the cafe across the street for him to use. It turns out even making it yourself couldn’t make it taste better.

The little song tells him it’s done pouring and he places the mug in front of Aziraphale before returning to his seat. Aziraphale peeks at it between his fingers, regarding the mug suspiciously, then sits up slowly with some effort. Crowley watches him with amusement as he takes a long swig and grimaces and smacks his lips in distaste.

“Oh, that’s awful stuff. Absolutely dreadful.”

“It’ll help,” Crowley says simply and picks up his phone. Aziraphale side eyes him but takes another sip and manages not to scowl too much. They sit in silence for a few minutes, Aziraphale painfully whittling away his drink like it’s a chore and Crowley pleasantly sipping his own.

He may have overstated the restorative powers of coffee, but he does slowly miracle away Aziraphale’s headache as he drains his mug, which is the next best thing. Aziraphale takes one last swig and slides the empty mug away from himself, frowning in displeasure but looking overall much less pale than before. He leans back in his chair and sighs wearily. Crowley glances up at him.

“Better?”

“Yes, actually,” Aziraphale admits gratefully. “I had no idea that coffee could treat a hangover so effectively.”

“Mhm. It’s a real miracle elixir.”

“Still tastes absolutely miserable, though.”

“You bought the stuff. It’s only right you drink it in penance,” Crowley smirks as he raises his mug to his lips.

Aziraphale waits for him to take a sip then asks cheerfully, “Ah, so drinking it every day is your preferred method of self-flagellation?”

Crowley chokes and coughs into his sleeve. Aziraphale preens at his own success as Crowley glares, then he leans back in his chair and makes an exaggeratedly thoughtful expression.

“I suppose you just have bad taste. Like all that noise you listen to in your car - oh, what is it called?”

“Don’t,” Crowley groans.

“What?” Aziraphale asks, unable to keep the delight out of his voice.

“It’s art, angel,” Crowley says. “Music.”

“I’m sure oodles of people would agree with me that your _bebop_ does not warrant the distinction of being called music,” Aziraphale sniffs.

“You could ask a million human beings to describe modern music and not a one would use the term bebop.”

“Certainly in a _million-_ ”

“Not. A. One. Well, a centenarian or two. I’ll give you that much.”

“Rude. You’re rude.”

Crowley grins at him over the rim of his mug. “Another coffee?”

“No, no,” Aziraphale grumbles. “I’m going to make some tea.”

“Another thing you have in common with those charming centenarians,” Crowley drawls pleasantly. Aziraphale narrows his eyes and Crowley gives him a toothy grin in return.

They bicker fondly as Aziraphale putters in the kitchen before returning to the table with his tea, in the mug with the little wings.

“Crowley,” he starts hesitantly in a tone that has Crowley putting his phone down to meet his gaze. “I would like to apologize for last night.”

“Is that so.”

“I was… well, my state of intoxication doesn’t matter. I realize now that I misread your signals and took too strong a liberty. I am sincerely sorry.” Aziraphale nervously plays with the string on his tea bag for a moment before he adds, softly, “I never wanted to make you feel uncomfortable or unwelcome.”

“Well, you haven’t, so don’t apologize.”

Aziraphale looks up at him a little hopelessly and Crowley’s heart starts racing. That’s weird, isn’t it, seeing as he’s only had the one coffee? He’s pretty sure his heart shouldn’t feel like it’s in his throat. He’s pretty sure it’s still locked up in his ribcage. He’s pretty sure that’s how hearts are supposed to work.

His mouth works faster than he can think better of it.

“I’d gladly let you do whatever you want to me, angel. But you - _we_ were drunk and I didn’t want you to regret it. That’s all.”

Once he registers with some horror that he had, in fact, said that out loud, Crowley tears his eyes off of Aziraphale and fixes his gaze on a scratch on the tabletop. He doesn’t look up when Aziraphale speaks.

“Do you mean that?”

“Yeah,” Crowley says, aiming for casual and managing something more akin to quietly desperate.

There’s a beat, and then he hears the soft scrape of a chair being pushed back. He finally looks up to see Aziraphale rounding the table and coming to a stop in front of him. He hesitates before sliding his hands delicately over Crowley’s shoulders.

“My dear, may I kiss you?”

“Yeah,” Crowley breathes.

His eyes slide closed as Aziraphale leans in and gives him a chaste kiss.

On his forehead.

Crowley’s eyes flutter open.

“What,” he says.

“What?” Aziraphale asks brightly.

“Not a kiss,” Crowley grumbles.

“It most certainly was, my dear.”

“Rude. You’re _rude_.”

He ducks his head because he can tell by the warmth growing there that his face is definitely going red, and he’d like just one ounce of dignity, thanks. He’s a little appalled with himself for how eager he had felt. And looked. (And is.)

Then a warm hand slides under his chin to guide him back up, and his sunglasses are gently picked off and placed on the table before those hands are back, cupping his jaw and drawing his gaze skyward, to Aziraphale, haloed in the early morning sun pouring into the room, smiling with all the world’s tenderness. At him. For him. Crowley stares up at him, helpless to do anything else.

“Oh, I’m sorry. That was too cruel. I just meant to tease you,” he says apologetically. “May I kiss you _properly?_ ”

This time Crowley simply nods because he’s not sure he could speak.

And he doesn’t close his eyes until Aziraphale’s lips are actually on his.

It’s lovely, and slow, and soft, and over too quickly.

When Aziraphale pulls back, looking pleased, Crowley stands, leaving little space between them.

“Can I-”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says firmly.

Crowley steadies his shaking hands by curling one into the fabric of Aziraphale’s shirt, bringing the other to cup the side of his jaw and neck. He watches Aziraphale’s tongue dart out to wet his lips, feels his jaw tighten and his neck bob against his palm as he swallows.

Crowley closes the gap and slides their lips together. He pulls Aziraphale against him by the hold on his shirt, and Aziraphale hums and tilts into the kiss - he’s warm, and vocal, and unexpectedly - wonderfully - commanding. He catches Crowley’s wrist and pushes his hand into his own short curls, and Crowley grasps dutifully, possessively, the moan it pulls from Aziraphale smothered against his eager mouth.

More greed, less softness.

He pulls back reluctantly to let Aziraphale catch his breath and can’t help but feel a little pride at the state he’s in. He’s a lovely sight - dazed with half lidded eyes, tousled hair and collar slightly mussed.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathes.

Crowley fondly straightens out his skewed bowtie.

“Sorry to have kept you waiting,” he says quietly.

Aziraphale smiles and pulls him in again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> crowley: certainly this is sustainable *sweats in demon*


	6. CHAPTER SIX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is accused of breaking things, and then proceeds to break things.

Certainly a little distraction never hurt anyone, Crowley reasons.

Yes, he may be avoiding the pressing issue of Anathema being onto him and the potentially deadly threat of Hell being on his back, but wouldn’t it be much nicer and more rewarding to avoid all of that unpleasantness _entirely?_

Absolutely.

Probably.

Having thoroughly mostly convinced himself, Crowley spends the next few days staunchly avoiding doing anything remotely helpful for his situation, as he is wont to do.

(Mostly, he spends time at the bookshop pestering Aziraphale. Often by kissing him at inopportune times. He can tell Aziraphale is trying very hard to be mad about it, which is quite cute, and nearly enough to take the edge off of the dread that digs its claws deeper into the back of his mind with each passing day - no rush, though.)

It isn’t completely clear whether he’s weak to his own wiles or if he’s developing that skill of self sabotage with single minded dedication. The end result is the same - the world keeps spinning, whether he likes it or not.

An unexpected guest arrives at the bookshop.

When Adam passes the threshold of the front door, something in the air sets Crowley on edge, and Aziraphale - entirely oblivious to it - approaches him gladly.

“Adam, how lovely of you to visit!” Aziraphale beams at him and clasps his hands together. “And who brought you by today? I can make all of us some tea, or hot cocoa…”

He trails off as Adam walks past him with purpose.

“Sorry, Mr. Fell. Sounds really great, but not today. I need to talk to Crowley.”

Aziraphale blinks and turns to see Adam grasp Crowley’s sleeve and start pulling him towards the door.

“We’re leaving,” Adam announces, as if they’d discussed it at length and came to the same decision.

Crowley isn’t having it.

“What? M'not,” Crowley scoffs, meeting Aziraphale’s bewildered gaze as he’s dragged past him and out of the shop. “Kid, come on-”

“Won’t be long, Mr. Fell,” Adam calls back.

Crowley glances back, a very confused Aziraphale watching after them in the doorway until they round the corner and he’s out of sight. Crowley pulls against the hold on his sleeve, finding it’s much harder than it has any right to be considering Adam is, what - five? Six?

(He hadn’t really ever gotten the hang of human ages. Because of their short lifespans, he supposes, humans desperately cling to every year, and he’d been slapped multiple times over the millennia for being off when assuming someone’s age. As far as he’s concerned, what’s a paltry 30 years? Is there really that big a difference between 24 and 54?)

“Alright, alright, that’s enough - you don’t have to drag me,” Crowley barks impatiently as he finally shakes off Adam’s grip, coming to a stop. “Talk. What is this about?”

Adam turns sharply, glaring with an intensity that sears into him and Crowley takes an involuntary step back. The chain around his neck begins to warm - he frantically tries to feel for a line of communication, but there’s nothing. Hell isn’t reaching out. It’s a relief, with Adam here, but that heat-

Adam takes a step forward to match Crowley’s retreat. “You need to fix things. You come here not knowing anything or any of us, and you just break things and don’t fix them - it’s not _fair_.”

“Whoa, whoa. That-”

“Anathema is a good person and you’ve made her upset! Now we don’t meet very much and when we do it’s all _wrong_ , and even though you could easily do something about it you don’t! Instead you just write stupid, stupid notes-”

“Slow down! How-”

“Shut up!” Adam snaps, and Crowley is surprised to find himself shutting up. “Just - fix it. Do something good, I don’t care what you are. It’ll be fine, I promise.”

Crowley catches something out of the corner of his eye which assures him otherwise.

It’s a car - or rather, an approximation of a car, like a drawing done without reference. It’s real enough for the casual observer and cloaked in an aura of mundanity that repels notice from humans. It wasn’t approaching - just observing, which he finds he likes even less.

“You need to go, kid. Now.”

Adam whirls around and focuses on the car-shaped-thing.

Which he absolutely should not be able to do.

“I’m not done,” Adam growls. “ _T_ _hey_ need to go.”

Crowley watches in something like horror and awe as the object does, in fact, _go_. It disappears with little fanfare or flash. There’s a pop, and the feeling of a sudden pressure change, and it’s gone.

(A witness might describe Crowley’s jaw dropping at the display of power. He’d argue he was just relieving the pressure in his ears.)

“Huh.”

When Adam turns towards him again he’s absolutely certain he’s about to get plunged directly back to Hell and vaguely wonders if his corporeal form will make it or if he should start thinking about paperwork, but Adam looks overwhelmingly calm and in control.

“You’re going to go talk to Anathema.”

Crowley shifts uncomfortably under Adam’s piercing gaze - he doesn’t relent.

Crowley’s chain feels hot against his skin, and he’s beginning to understand that it isn’t Hell that’s causing it.

“Well, then. I suppose I am.”

He’s not entirely convinced that it’s by his own will - regardless, he turns and starts walking the familiar route to Anathema’s flat, leaving Adam and the bookshop behind.

—

“Is Anathema in?”

Newton peers at Crowley through the half open door, shaking like a leaf with a spot.

“She’s - she’s not. Uh, if that’s all, then-”

“Honey, who’s at the door?”

“Okay bye,” he says in a broken voice and goes to close the door in Crowley’s face, squeaking in alarm when Crowley shoves his foot in the doorway to stop him.

“Just tell her Adam sent me,” Crowley says simply, then raises his hands in yielding and takes a few slow steps back from the door. Newt eyes him cautiously and retreats into the flat.

Crowley is almost ready to give up waiting when Anathema finally comes out and closes the door behind her, regarding him coolly - still, her acknowledging him at all is an improvement at this point.

“Let’s go for a walk. We have a lot to talk about.”

“Seems we do.”

They wander for some time in overbearing silence - now that he has the chance to explain himself, obviously everything Crowley had planned to say suddenly escapes him - and Anathema is the first to eventually speak.

“After you left, a few things happened around the shop that felt… off. I’ve felt something similar, after what I’m pretty sure was a divine intervention. I think the being that performs it leaves an imprint. Like a signature.”

Signatures - it sounds familiar, and he furiously tries to remember. If he had paid an ounce of attention at the Hellish seminar he might have even succeeded. Unfortunately, the majority of the time he had been preoccupied either intentionally (by his phone and scratching rude words into the table) or unintentionally (by Aziraphale - certainly Crowley couldn’t be expected to focus on a lecture about demonic interventions when the man was randomly texting him about new books that arrived at the shop or cats he had seen in windows on his walk).

“The signatures around the shop - well, they matched the aura I had sensed on you.” Anathema frowns and looks sidelong at him. “When you came back your aura was completely different. That wasn’t actually yours, was it?”

Crowley shakes his head. “No. I was, uh," he hesitates, then considers that Anathema probably already knows too much for him to hide anything meaningful from her now, “I was in Hell for two weeks. Being that close for that long leaves a mark.”

Anathema stares at him.

Crowley shrugs. “Lovely to meet you. Anthony J. Crowley, agent of Hell, immortal demon, serpent-”

He’s interrupted when Anathema exclaims in excitement.

“Oh, I _knew_ it!”

That is… not quite the reaction he had anticipated.

“Well, alright, I didn’t know you were a _demon_. That’s a bit unexpected,” she admits. “But now it makes so much more sense why the signature felt dark even though the outcome wasn’t bad - oh, oh! Then that was _you_ , that time the car unlocked after I left my key inside! And when I spilled my drink on my book but it was fine, and the time Newt’s flat tire was fixed after a meeting-”

Crowley listens with mounting horror. He really has gotten soft.

Anathema laughs and runs a hand through her hair a little manically. “You’re awful at being a demon, aren’t you?”

“Awful?” Crowley scoffs indignantly. “Well, see if I ever break a parking metre for you again.” Anathema’s hands fly up to cover her mouth with a delighted gasp. “ _Don't_ look at me like that, that’s destruction of government property, that’s technically-”

“Sure, sure,” Anathema waves her hand dismissively as Crowley stammers and fumes. “Very evil and cool. So, you’re a demon. What are you doing here? Why on earth would you join a book club?”

Crowley clears his throat and stands a little straighter, trying to exude an ounce of his remaining dignity. “Well. I received an assignment from Hell to keep tabs on a certain American witch in Soho who runs said book club.”

“Wow. Should I be flattered to be on Hell’s watch list?”

“Probably not. It’s a mess down there. For my part, I took the assignment because I was - I was bored.”

“You were bored, so you asked for work. Okay. But why all this?” Anathema gestures vaguely and Crowley stares uncomprehendingly. “You were gathering information by attending the clubs. That tracks. But what about spending time with everyone, getting close to us? I mean, come on. You’re part of the group, Crowley. You even participated in the Secret Santa, for goodness sake.”

(It had been a white elephant gift exchange. He and Aziraphale browsed thrift stores until he finally found the perfect gift for Newton, and despite Aziraphale’s objections he bought it on the spot - it was a huge jar full of ancient decrepit doll heads which Newton was, as he had anticipated and to his delight, absolutely terrified of. Pepper had gifted him a rusted antique cymbal with the words STATUS CYMBAL printed across it, which took a place of honor on the bookshelf he’d been forced to buy for his flat after months of book clubs.)

Crowley moodily shoves his hands in his pockets. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Anathema rolls her eyes. “Uh huh. So you were just bored enough to go out for drinks after meetings, bored enough to watch Golden Girls reruns at my flat, bored enough to make dinner for us, bored enough to-”

“Alright, alright! Tell the whole blessed world, why don’t you?” Crowley snaps. “I - maybe I got more invested than I expected - what does it matter?”

“It matters because it goes both ways, Crowley. You're family now - _shut up,_ let me finish - but what does that mean for your assignment? Correct me if I’m wrong, but Hell probably isn’t going to let you just quit. What does that mean for all of us going forward? What does it mean for you if you’re not doing your job?”

Anathema’s face falls as she comes to a realization.

“What about Aziraphale? Does he know any of this?”

Crowley winces.

His silence is damning.

Anathema shakes her head pityingly. “Oh, Crowley-”

“ _Ssstop_ ,” he hisses, and Anathema watches wide eyed as he flicks a forked tongue in agitation. Apparently he really does only accept pity from Aziraphale. “Let’s talk about something else. _Anything_ else.”

They fall into an uncomfortable silence. Crowley truly wishes he could be anywhere but his own thoughts right now - there was too much to think about. Too much to do that he didn’t want to do. Too many difficult conversations. Too much that could go wrong.

Maybe he should go see a movie?

He startles back to reality when Anathema speaks up hesitantly.

“When Hell sent you, did they mention anything about Adam?”

“No, nothing.”

She sighs. “You said he sent you to talk to me today. Did he seem different?”

Crowley frowns. “Different would be an understatement. That kid is not entirely human. No human has that kind of power.”

“That’s what I thought,” she says, taking no joy from being correct in this case. “It’s just - it’s odd they never mentioned him. That strong aura I felt on you when you came back from Hell? Now that I know what it is, I’m sure of it - I feel it sometimes coming from Adam. Usually I can’t sense any aura from him, but I’ve felt flashes of that.”

He thinks back to how his chain had responded to Adam, how he had seen the cloaked sort-of-car, how he knew things he couldn’t have known. He wasn’t sure why Adam was manifesting these powers, but it was undeniable.

“Well, shit,” Crowley says, summarizing the situation rather concisely.

Anathema looks at him pleadingly. “Could you find out about him? I don’t know, go to Hell and ask around?”

Crowley laughs humorlessly. “Report Hell’s intel to you? Like a double agent? They’d skewer me. Literally. And worse.”

Then he has a thought.

What would he need to do to convince Hell that this assignment was done? Get himself and everyone else off the hook?

And then never ask for a damned assignment for the rest of his existence?

He holds out a hand.

“If I do this, I’ll need you to work with me.”

Anathema shakes without hesitation.

Certainly that sort of textbook temptation will have to count for something Down There. He’d leave out the fact that it was a deal struck to investigate Hell itself, of course - they probably wouldn’t appreciate that part.

—

The cheerful bells on the door announce his sombre return to the shop.

Crowley can tell Aziraphale is genuinely worried when he topples one of the piles of books littering the shop’s floor in his rush to greet Crowley at the door and doesn’t even spare a glance back. The disregard for the books is as telling as it is surprising.

(The toppling itself isn’t noteworthy. Even when carefully picking your way through the shop it’s absurdly easy to knock something over. Aziraphale always eyes handbags and backpacks with suspicion - not for the chance of theft, but the severe likeness of accidental collapse of one or more of the dozens of haphazard stacks of books.)

“Easy, angel. S’fine,” Crowley grumbles as he allows Aziraphale to fuss over him to placate his worry.

Aziraphale, satisfied for the moment, takes a step back. “What on earth happened, dear?”

“Adam was very persistent in suggesting I talk to Anathema, so now I have. It’s fine. Dealt with,” Crowley explains dismissively as he locks up behind him. When he turns to face Aziraphale, the relief is clear on the other man’s face.

“Really? That’s wonderful,” Aziraphale breathes. “Oh, jolly good. That must be such a comfort.” Pleased, he finally turns his attention to the scattered pile of books. Crowley is fairly certain he hears him apologizing to the things under his breath. He glances at Crowley over his shoulder as he carefully gathers them. “Did she mention what had upset her in the first place?”

“Yeah, uh. Aura business,” Crowley answers vaguely.

Aziraphale tuts. “It’s nonsense to let something like that hinder a friendship for so long, but I’m glad to hear it’s dealt with.” When the stack is sorted and starts making his way upstairs, Crowley follows behind, scanning the shop for signs of company.

“Adam’s gone?”

“Oh yes, he left hours ago. Not long after he dragged you out of the shop! He came back looking dreadfully tired, wouldn’t even tell me how he got here,” Aziraphale sighs regretfully as they step into his flat. “It wasn’t until Mr. Young showed up that I found out he had asked to be dropped off while his father puttered about with chores or some such. The man wasn't impressed at his boy's state, let me tell you. What a shame the poor boy was so affected by Anathema’s superstition-”

“Don’t,” Crowley cuts him off curtly.

Aziraphale looks at him, surprised.

“She’s a witch, Aziraphale,” Crowley sighs and busies himself grabbing glasses from the kitchen cupboard and pouring them each a drink. “It’s not superstition. Anyway, I was a bastard for waiting so long.”

He fails to mention that he’s also a demon who infiltrated the group and caused the issue in the first place. Ah, well. He takes a sip of his drink.

Aziraphale frowns. “I didn’t realize that you believed in that as well.”

Crowley eyes him over the rim of his glass. “You believe in a higher power. How is this different? And your books of prophecy - why collect those if you don’t believe in it, at least a little?”

Aziraphale draws himself up indignantly. “Well, that’s - that’s completely different. One is a comfort and the other is a curiosity. The supernatural is just idle fancy.”

“S’everywhere, if you really care to look,” Crowley shrugs.

Aziraphale sighs, obviously already weary of the topic - Crowley imagines he’s had similar conversations with Anathema in the past. He’s quiet for a few moments before his demeanor shifts and he approaches Crowley, cheekily picking off his sunglasses and plucking the drink from his hand, taking a sip before placing both on the counter. 

“Well, if that’s the case, maybe you could show me.”

It’s a clear deflection, and Crowley isn’t against a diversion from this particularly difficult topic. He also rather enjoys kissing Aziraphale, so really, it’s a win-win.

Crowley’s mouth quirks and he wraps his arms around Aziraphale’s waist, pulling him closer and pressing him into the counter with his hips.

“I can think of a few things to show you,” he growls in his ear, pressing a few wet kisses there and against his jaw, drawing a small sigh from Aziraphale, “if you really want some _convincing_.” He gently nips at his ear and then treats the other side - his hands on Aziraphale’s waist slide to his back, grasping the thick fabric of his vest, and Aziraphale’s hands are wandering rather pointedly downwards - it’s a lovely scene leading to a lovely outcome, he’s sure.

He would like very much to find out, in an ideal world.

Unfortunately, he can’t stop thinking about Anathema’s pitying look when she had asked if Aziraphale knows anything - and the fact that Aziraphale doesn’t know anything.

Alright, no diversion, then. Fine.

Aziraphale is flushed when he pulls back, and his skin is pink where Crowley had been teasing and biting, and his pupils are blown out, and he’s halfway done opening Crowley’s belt buckle, and oh God or Satan or someone, Crowley wants this very, very badly.

He kisses Aziraphale on the side of his mouth and steps back anyway.

“It’s, uh - it’s just a bit fast,” he lies painfully.

“Of course,” Aziraphale says, slightly dazed, and then blinks and tries again with more conviction. “Of course. I - ah, may have gotten a bit carried away.”

“No, no. S’good.”

He fixes the buckle, clears his throat and takes a long drink to cool off while he attempts to regain his composure. He notices Aziraphale’s gaze following the motion as he runs a hand through his hair, notices his eyes flick to his lips as he licks them nervously. It would be so _easy_ to just -

“Look, uh, there’s something I should tell you,” Crowley manages to croak out.

Aziraphale takes a deep drink from his own glass (presumably for similar composure related reasons).

“Go ahead, dear.”

Crowley takes a deep breath. “I need to tell you about my relationship with the occult.”

Aziraphale’s face falls.

Yeah, that’s about the reaction he had been expecting.

“I know you think it’s nonsense. It’s not. Anathema is a witch - a skilled one, actually. And I’m. I-I’m- uh, involved? Also?”

Flawless. Incredible. Crowley groans inwardly at himself.

Aziraphale frowns. “Are you in a cult?”

“What? No, why-”

“It sounds like you’re telling me that you’re in a cult.”

“No - alright, let me try that again.” Crowley paces for a moment and when he finally decidedly turns back towards Aziraphale, he points to his eyes, clearly visible without his sunglasses on. “How do you think something like this happens?”

“You said you were in an accident,” Aziraphale says carefully.

“I said it _was_ an accident. And it was, just not the kind you’re imagining. I asked questions, got in with the wrong people-”

“Are you _sure_ this isn’t about a cult?”

“-and this is what happened as a consequence. I mean, that’s not all, but it’s part of it.”

Aziraphale exhales impatiently. “Enough. Please. I’ve dealt with enough riddles for one lifetime and I’m not keen to keep guessing. Just say what you mean, Crowley - I can’t promise that I’ll like it, but I promise you I’ll listen.”

That’s probably the best he can ask for in this situation, he reasons. Probably more than he deserves.

So he tells him.

To his credit, Aziraphale does listen. To all of it.

Crowley starts from the beginning - starts from when he was an angel who asked questions, who ended up hanging around the rebellious sort. He explains how in those days it was easy to get banished, and though he never meant to Fall he sauntered vaguely into it anyway. When he reaches describing his descent, he falters, and Aziraphale’s guarded expression softens, and that’s enough for him to plunge through it - the boiling sulphur, the burning, coming out of it so different.

Then for the first time during his explanation he doesn’t refer to himself as an angel or as fallen.

“There’s loads of history since then but that’s the supercut. So, here I am. Immortal demon on earth standing in your kitchen. Lucky you,” he says, emphasizing the end with a halfhearted hand wave.

Aziraphale speaks up after a few beats of silence.

“Are you finished?”

His expression and tone are hard to read. Crowley tenses and nods.

“Alright. Crowley, I’m sorry - but that is all absolutely rubbish.”

Huh.

He hadn't expected a reaction like that to sting, but it does.

Crowley exhales through gritted teeth in exasperation. “How are you - did you listen to what I said at all? Look at me!”

“I _am_ looking,” Aziraphale snaps, “and I see Crowley in front of me! I see a man I have known for half a year who is most certainly not _demonic_. I just see a person - a person who can be stubborn and rude and self conscious, yes, but also incredibly thoughtful, and clever, and good to me-”

“Aziraphale, _lisssten_ ,” Crowley hisses, and Aziraphale flinches back at the sound in surprise. “Please. Look.” He blinks and when he opens his eyes, his yellow irises are blown wide, entirely overtaking the sclera, his pupils a thin slit splitting through their centers. He flicks his forked tongue anxiously.

“Do you sssee it now?”

He doesn’t expect it but still _hopes_ for the journey he had witnessed in Aziraphale’s expression when he had first seen Crowley’s eyes - the confusion, and acceptance, and welcoming.

He’s left wanting when it stops at just the confusion.

“How?”

“You believe in God. You believe in angels and demons too, then. Must do, right? Is it a stretch to believe they could be on earth? I mean - well, I don’t expect you to _want_ a demon in your kitchen, but that’s besides the point,” Crowley finishes lamely.

Aziraphale swallows thickly. “I don’t know-”

“Do you want me to convince you?”

Aziraphale hesitates then nods silently, eyes wide, uncertain. Questioning. Like he’s at the tipping point.

Like he just needs one more reason, one small temptation to coax him over the edge, and he trusts Crowley to do it.

Right, then.

Crowley manifests his wings. They unfold gracefully and he can’t help but roll his shoulders with a gratified sigh as he stretches them out for the first time in many years. They're black as night, sleek, and flawlessly preened - and, as it turns out, too large for this small room.

There’s a scrape and the sound of shattering glass.

Crowley swings around to see one of his outstretched wings had pushed the bottle he poured from earlier off of the counter, the remains of it now littering the kitchen floor.

“Ah, ssshit,” he hisses.

It’s deadly silent as if the whole world is taking a breath - and then he hears muffled laughter from behind him. He turns carefully to see Aziraphale trying very hard not to shake with mirth and failing. Crowley stares at him, at a loss.

“Oh, my dear. Only you could ruin such a dire mood with such style,” Aziraphale says fondly, and Crowley flicks his snake tongue at him, triggering more laughter.

Crowley sniffs indignantly. "Seen enough, then?"

Aziraphale’s hands flex and Crowley notices him lift his arm slightly, hesitantly, before he convinces himself out of it and pulls back.

"S'fine. You can touch them," Crowley offers, turning slightly to provide better access. "Prove they're real or whatever."

Aziraphale reaches out cautiously and seems startled to meet a solid object as he brushes his fingers along the smooth primaries of his wing.

"Oh," Aziraphale gasps softly.

He delicately runs his hand along the top, through the coverts, and Crowley realizes that he's never allowed anyone to touch his wings before, yet he had offered it so readily, without a second thought, to Aziraphale - it feels entirely too much and too intimate in this moment.

He shouldn't be allowed to enjoy this.

He clears his throat awkwardly. “Satisfied? 'Fraid I’m gonna knock something else over.”

Aziraphale nods, staring as the stunning wings fold back into the aether. When Crowley blinks, his irises have returned to their usual size.

Aziraphale exhales in awe. “That’s - that’s certainly something.”

Crowley averts his gaze miserably. “It is that, yeah.”

It hangs in the air between them for a long, harrowing moment.

“Well, then. Let’s clean up this mess,” Aziraphale says decidedly.

Crowley frowns at the floor. Then he looks up and frowns at Aziraphale, currently rummaging through a drawer.

“What?”

“Be a dear?” Aziraphale hands him a cloth then makes his way to the broom closet.

Crowley stares at the rag in his hands, then down at the shards of glass and the liquor pooled on the floor, then looks up at Aziraphale again as he returns with a brush and dustpan in tow. Operating as if everything is normal. Calm, as if Crowley hadn’t just exposed himself as a _literal demon from literal Hell_.

“What?”

“The bottle, dear boy. I’d prefer not to step on that later.”

“W- wh- uh, yeah, alright. Here, let me get it.”

Crowley snaps his fingers.

It’s automatic, a logical response informed by six thousand years of thoughtlessly using his powers to accomplish menial tasks of all kinds. All at once the bottle is sitting on the counter in the exact state it had been in before it fell, like it was never in thousands of pieces and is a little offended that you would even suggest such a thing.

Honestly, he hadn’t really thought about how this helpful trick might look and feel to a human who had been faced with the existence of supernatural beings only minutes earlier and was suddenly faced with _magic_ to top it all off.

Aziraphale stares blankly at the now pristine floor, where the mess had been, halted halfway through his motion of bending to sweep up the glass.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley sputters as he realizes his misstep. Aziraphale calmly stands up straight. “Wow, that’s a lot, huh? I, er-”

Crowley is shocked into silence when Aziraphale looks him directly in the eye and slowly and deliberately pushes the restored bottle off of the counter.

It smashes on the floor.

“Uh,” Crowley says, and that’s just the end of that sentence.

Aziraphale smiles.

Crowley stares and starts to wonder (for no particular reason) how painful it would be (theoretically) to get discorporated by someone with nothing but a brush, a dustpan, and a grudge.

“Shall we?” Aziraphale asks, voice chipper in the way it can only be when a person’s composure is hanging on by a thread.

“Yep,” Crowley agrees immediately, popping the p, and gets to work.

They clean in silence and when they finish, Aziraphale leaves wordlessly to dispose of the glass and return the cleaning supplies. As soon as Crowley has that short moment to himself, the cool he’d been holding onto escapes him, and he backs himself into the corner of the kitchen, grasping his folded arms and taking long, harsh breaths as he tries to steady himself.

Aziraphale returns looking genuinely serene, his composure neatly stitched back together, and he stills when his gaze comes to rest on Crowley, threadbare and gasping.

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale tuts gently, then approaches carefully, much in the way you would approach a scared animal. “Please, relax. It’s going to be okay.”

Aziraphale delicately slides a hand over Crowley’s shoulder and Crowley goes stock still at the contact. After a breath Aziraphale raises his other hand to cup the side of his face, brushing his thumb rhythmically, soothingly against his cheek. The tension in him slowly begins to unwind as he leans in to the touch - he tries to school his hopeful expression neutral, but when he finally meets Aziraphale’s gaze, he just can’t.

“Aziraphale,” he breathes, as a statement, and a question, and a prayer.

“I’m so sorry, dear. I didn’t mean to keep you on the edge. I just needed time to process this… well, everything," Aziraphale says quietly.

“‘Course,” Crowley says, voice hoarse but firm. “‘Course it’s fine.”

Aziraphale takes in a shaking breath, then nods decidedly, grounding himself. “I - I can’t begin to claim that I understand everything that I’ve seen and heard tonight,” he starts slowly. “I am, however, completely certain that I am not afraid, and that I’ve never felt afraid around you. Quite the opposite, in fact."

Aziraphale grips his shoulder reassuringly.

"I’ve watched and listened, and in the end, I still see my dear Crowley here in front of me."

Crowley feels his heart constrict in a way that’s all at once painful and euphoric, multiplied by the warmth on Aziraphale's face.

“I was happy to believe in it for a long time, you know - the _institution_ ,” he continues. “I never questioned why I should be miserable under a just God. I never asked questions, period. It wasn’t until I left following the death of my parents that I came to realize that not every judgement made against me was fair - or right.”

Aziraphale leans in and presses a lingering kiss against the snake on Crowley’s cheekbone, and when he pulls back, his face is pinched, a crack in his mask of calmness - Crowley raises a hand to cup the one still against his cheek, cool skin on warm, and Aziraphale relaxes slightly at his touch.

“I’m - I’m not entirely sure how to navigate this,” Aziraphale admits sheepishly, as if he could in any world be expected to. “It’s not every day you find yourself gladly accepting a demon into your home.”

“That’s very sensible. Definitely keep that up. I, uh, wouldn’t object to being the exception, of course,” Crowley manages around the knot in his throat.

Aziraphale tilts his head in mock deliberation. “Well, I suppose you _are_ quite exceptional. I’ll take it under consideration.”

“S’more than I deserve.”

“That is correct, but I do so love to indulge you.”

Crowley snorts. “Ouch, angel.”

“You said it first,” Aziraphale teases and distractedly straightens Crowley’s collar. “I suppose I do have six months of practice, don’t I? Certainly it shouldn’t prove too difficult to continue to have one handsome and generally well behaved demon visit.”

“ _Well behaved_ ,” Crowley scoffs indignantly. “Best not let that one get out. I’ve got a bad reputation to uphold, you know.”

“I wouldn't worry too terribly much about it. I’m quite sure no one else would accuse you of having manners,” Aziraphale says sweetly as he slides a hand over Crowley’s back, feeling curiously where a wing had been. “Oh, I have so many questions, but - I must say you looked quite fetching like that, you know,” he adds slyly.

“D-did I, now,” Crowley chokes, his face warming.

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d very much like to kiss you right now.”

“Sure, that - that would be fine.”

When Aziraphale leans in to kiss the edges of his mouth, and then his lips, it hits him bodily that this is real. The wall of his anxiety crashes down and he’s flooded with relief and lo- _fondness_. Aziraphale is kissing him, and sliding the hand on his back to the nape of his neck, and tilting his head into the kiss, and he’s there, and real, and Crowley is certain that he doesn’t deserve this, but he’ll gladly and selfishly accept it anyway.

He growls deep in his throat and pulls Aziraphale against him to greedily kiss his lips, and when Aziraphale needs to catch his breath he kisses his jaw, and undoes his bowtie and collar so he can give his neck the same thorough treatment for good measure.

“Dear, can we move somewhere more comfortable-” Aziraphale interrupts himself with a gasp as Crowley nips at his neck, “-i-if that’s not too much?”

“Mm. Where?”

“Well, the couch is right - oh!”

Aziraphale laughs as Crowley leads him, backwards, the few steps towards the couch, letting the backs of Aziraphale’s knees catch so he lands on his back on the soft cushions. Crowley climbs onto the couch over him, nudging between his legs.

“I hope this means you’ve made your choice,” Crowley mumbles against Aziraphale’s neck between peppering it with wet kisses.

(It’s a clever and effective tactic to avoid asking him to his face. If the sighs he’s working out of Aziraphale are any indication, he certainly doesn’t mind.)

“Oh, yes. It was an easy decision, all said and done.” Aziraphale hums pleasantly as Crowley works his way up his jaw. “Have you made yours?”

“Did ages ago,” Crowley answers without hesitation, and catches his lips again.

Crowley is struck by the feeling of losing control - not outwards, but inwards - of needing, of taking. He accepts everything that Aziraphale will give with a monstrous tenderness, cherished like a precious, fleeting thing. He murmurs against Aziraphale’s skin and undoes his buttons to give himself more places to touch and kiss and hold, and slides his hands across the soft expanse of his stomach, and against the long healed scars framing his lower chest, and along his sides, and over his thighs.

When Crowley finally tugs at his waistband, Aziraphale tilts up his hips, allowing him to slide the trousers off - Crowley pauses, then looks up and raises his eyebrows at Aziraphale, who blushes madly at his scrutiny.

“Commando? Really. You’ve surprised me once again, angel.”

“I - I can _not_ believe you are choosing right now to complain about such a thing,” Aziraphale stammers.

Crowley grins wickedly. “Not complaining. Just noting. May I?”

Aziraphale nods breathlessly.

Crowley gracelessly drops to his knees on the floor and pulls Aziraphale by his hips to the edge of the couch, pressing kisses into the pliant flesh of his thighs. Aziraphale grips his hair with shaking hands when he finally takes him into his mouth, gasps when he spreads him open and dips his tongue in experimentally.

“Yes- Oh, please-”

Crowley obliges, thoroughly, with his hands and with his mouth - if his forked tongue makes an appearance in the duration, he’s simply making use of all of the glorious tools at his disposal.

“Crowley-” Aziraphale breathes and cants against him, body shivering, tensing. Crowley takes him, rolls his tongue and sucks, not sharply but deeply - slowly - and Aziraphale comes, shuddering and gasping.

Crowley slows, pressing a few lazy kisses onto Aziraphale’s hips and stomach, mouth warm and wet with slick, as he waits for Aziraphale to stop shaking and for his breathing to level.

“Kiss me,” Aziraphale says finally, and he leans in to obey.

Crowley stays the night as he has many times, but this time, for the first time, he shares Aziraphale’s bed. He doesn’t sleep. He doesn’t need to, nor does he particularly want to - instead, he holds Aziraphale wrapped up in his arms, preoccupied by the phantom feeling of his wings curling around the both of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS Aziraphale has been to therapy, folks  
> Thanks again to my beta North (Northisnotup) for her notes and guidance, this chapter is so much better for her having read it!! I love you! And thanks to everyone for your lovely feedback, this really is just a self indulgent mess and I'm so glad other people are enjoying it as well!


	7. CHAPTER SEVEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley answers many more questions than he manages to ask.

Crowley is as much a man as he is an aardvark or _any_ physical thing - which is not at all. He’s a demon, an occult entity. His human-shaped appearance is his own choice, one he’d opted for thousands of years ago to blend in with humanity and to easier navigate the world.

However, metaphysics aside, there’s a lot to be said for how one views oneself.

Crowley is the serpent of Eden.

It’s an identity - and thus, reality, human-shaped or otherwise.

This manifests itself in several ways. Some are physical, like his slitted eyes, which persist in any form he takes. It also comes through in mannerisms - his slinky gait, his apparent inability to sit like a normal human being, and the uncanny way in which he’s currently managed to curl himself around Aziraphale.

Greedily soaking up his warmth like a snake in the sun might be another giveaway.

Crowley is in something like a blissful snakey haze when he finally feels the other man rouse that morning, and reluctantly untangles their limbs to allow Aziraphale to gently roll out of his arms.

(If Crowley immediately misses his presence it’s definitely because he’s cold blooded and has nothing to do with enjoying a good cuddle. Not that he’d ever describe it as such. A demon can’t be seen to be _snuggling_. A bask, however, was probably permissible - it had been a rather good bask.)

Aziraphale pushes himself to sitting and stretches with a wide yawn, blinking his sleepy eyes and trying valiantly to will himself into something resembling alertness. Crowley props his head on his hand and watches him with fond amusement.

“Morning.”

“Morn’,” Aziraphale mumbles drowsily.

When he finally reaches some degree of wakefulness he folds his hands in his lap and peeks thoughtfully over his shoulder at Crowley, studying him as if he’s unfamiliar somehow - like he’s seeing him for the first time - before speaking up.

“I don’t suppose everything that happened yesterday was just a strange dream,” he manages with a strained sort of levity.

“‘Fraid not, angel.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale stares down at the bed silently for a moment. “Angel,” he repeats quietly. “It feels a tad different now, doesn’t it?”

Crowley winces. “You don’t like it?”

“No, no, I didn’t say that,” Aziraphale assures him. “It’s just - is it supposed to be some sort of joke?”

Crowley pushes himself up to sitting next to him. “How do you mean?”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows raise incredulously. “ _How do you_ \- well, angels and demons are hereditary enemies, are they not?”

“Nah. Well, on paper, maybe. We’re not as dissimilar as you’ve been told, really. Mostly we’re just doing our jobs.”

Aziraphale frowns. “I see. And what is a demon’s job, exactly?”

“That’s - a little more complicated,” Crowley says carefully. “On paper? Lay waste to mankind, foment dissent and discord, that sort of thing. For my part, mainly I botch paperwork to take credit for whatever depravity humans dream up. Your lot makes my job rather simple, honestly.”

“That’s… surprisingly mundane.”

Crowley shrugs. “Gotta know your strengths. Mine are more in the project management department,” he says brightly.

Aziraphale chuckles. “Dare I ask?”

Crowley smirks and rubs his hands together mischievously. “Oh, I wish you would.”

Aziraphale can’t help his small smile. “As you wish.” He leans in conspiratorially, bumping their shoulders fondly. “What sort of demonic projects have you gotten up to managing, oh foul fiend?”

“Form BF18,” Crowley says without hesitation, beaming with pride.

Aziraphale waits as if he’s expecting a punchline and Crowley’s grin falters.

“Form BF18? No? Nothing?” Aziraphale shakes his head and Crowley scoffs in disbelief. “The bane of any Internal Audit employee? Imagine the torment of some poor bugger, just wanted to be a graphic designer, who finds himself at this job and stares at that form every day for twenty years. Gotta double check it against the TP48, BY’s 23 and 24, and the AF-364-J36. Not to mention to get the thing in the first place, you need to fill out the NG60 and…”

He trails off at Aziraphale’s increasingly puzzled expression.

“My art is lost on you,” he grumbles dejectedly.

Aziraphale pats his arm consolingly. “I’m sorry, dear. I can’t say I’m tremendously well versed on government documents beyond filing my taxes. Oh, those I do quite enjoy, though,” he sighs, as if recalling a fond memory. “Have you worked on something a touch more universal?”

“M25,” Crowley says reluctantly, with the air of a long time fan mentioning an indie band’s one-hit wonder chart topper.

Aziraphale gasps. “You _devil._ ”

That reaction is enough to placate him immediately - flattery will get you everywhere. He grins and bends forward in the gesture of a bow, sweeping an arm with an exaggerated flourish. “Why, thank you.”

Aziraphale laughs. “Well, it isn’t all bad, I suppose,” he says lightly.

“Oh?”

He looks back at Crowley, eyes narrowed slyly.

“You may be a demon with an unsettling knack for inconvenient bureaucracy, but the head _was_ really rather good.”

Crowley is startled to silence for a moment before he barks with laughter and Aziraphale smiles wide, pleased with his reaction. He presses a hand to Crowley’s shoulder and playfully pushes him into the bed, shifting his weight to hold him firmly in place, and it’s enough to send Crowley’s heart racing.

“I’d like to return the favor, if you’re interested,” Aziraphale adds quietly as he leans over him with a mischievous smile.

Yes.

Yes, yes, yes.

Generally, Crowley has never cared much for fucking or other carnal pleasure. Much in the way he enjoys cooking but not eating, he’s more invested in the process - teasing, flirting, winding up - anything beyond that is just like a lot of mess to clean up. He had indulged on occasion if the fancy struck and the meal was tempting enough, but usually he was glad to leave it for someone else to deal with.

Aziraphale, however… Aziraphale, he wants to lean in and taste - again and again and again and again - he wants to savor the complexities of him on the back of his tongue, wants to take his fill and then some.

But yesterday he had made a deal, and he needs to follow through.

“I’d love to let you go down on me, truly,” Crowley groans regretfully. He shifts underneath Aziraphale just to appreciate the press of their bodies together - and apparently torture himself with the knowledge that he can't have more of it. “Unfortunately, I need to deal with a few things this morning.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale pulls back, frowning curiously. “Of course. For work?”

Crowley climbs out of bed and straightens out his clothes, clearing his throat before casually adding as if he hadn’t heard the question, “Oh, and - little known fact, how fun for you - demons are sexless, so you wouldn’t have a lot to work with.”

“Oh! Oh?”

Crowley nods sagely. “Mhm. If you want sex organs you need to make an effort. It’s not difficult, it’s just - a thing.”

As he’d hoped, Aziraphale is thoroughly distracted from his previous line of questioning. He’s not ready to tell him about Adam’s powers and his vague plan with Anathema with so much of it up in the air. Plus, he’s a little worried about turning Aziraphale’s brain to goo - it seems a bit much all at once, considering what he’d gone through yesterday.

Aziraphale’s eyes narrow skeptically and he climbs out of the bed. “Dear, don’t take this the wrong way, I adore you, but I’d rather not make an offering to some ancient god in exchange for the opportunity to fellate you.”

Crowley chokes. “Why would you-”

“You said I would need to make an effort,” Aziraphale reminds him politely.

“That’s not what I - no, _you_ don’t need to do anything,” Crowley manages, barely. “Can we talk about this after I’ve made coffee? I’d like coffee for this.”

And so Crowley busies himself in the kitchen making their drinks, considering how to best explain the physiology of non-physical beings. It’s not the ideal topic for a light morning chat, he’ll admit, but he’ll take it - it’s better than what the rest of the day has in store for him, at any rate. He’s dreading his visit to Hell to dig up information on the demonic powers Adam is manifesting.

Going around asking questions hadn’t really worked out for him thus far.

He downs his coffee.

When Aziraphale joins him, he takes the tea that Crowley holds out appreciatively. “Thank you. Well, go on. Tell me about this _effort_ you need to make.”

Crowley tilts his head to his shoulder as he decides where to start. “Well, it’s not that complicated, really. Just need to put the thought and focus into choosing a shape. I can change that any time, it’s not a commitment - I just haven’t bothered for… er, it’s been a while.”

“You’re able to change your body that easily?” Aziraphale balks. “Do you understand the amount of paperwork I had to complete before I was allowed to do something like that?”

“Yeah, your lot is pretty particular about all that business, huh?”

“Hard to believe that even _demons_ are further ahead than us,” Aziraphale sniffs.

Crowley clicks his tongue chidingly. “Don’t give them that much credit. Gender and sex aren’t really things for demons. Angels, either. It means nothing to most of us beyond maybe favoring one presentation. I mean, we’re not even material beings, strictly speaking. Size, shape, composition - they’re just options, really.”

Aziraphale listens with an increasingly distant look, nodding slightly as he slowly raises his mug to his lips. Crowley imagines he’s either pretending to understand that last part or pointedly ignoring it for his own sanity. Which, fair.

Aziraphale takes a deep - and likely very grounding - sip of his tea before gently placing the empty cup down. “I suppose now that I’m chatting with a demon about his magical genitalia, I should apologize to Anathema for doubting her being a witch,” he says mildly.

Crowley snorts. “Puts things into perspective, doesn’t it?”

Aziraphale blows out his cheeks and scoffs. “Most certainly. Though, Crowley… I would like to make it abundantly clear that you don’t have to do any of this. I’d hate to think that you felt obligated-”

“Not a concern, but thanks.” Crowley isn’t sure how to say what he wants and _not_ sound at least a little desperate, so he leans into it - at least maybe then they’ll both be flustered. He’s petty like that. “I meant it when I said I’d gladly let you do whatever you want to me. Anything, angel. I’ll take it - I _want_ it.”

Aziraphale does, in fact, get flustered. It’s a delightful display - he can almost see the steam coming out of his ears. Crowley decides instantly that the reaction is entirely worth the loss of his dwindling dignity.

“W-well, jolly good, then,” Aziraphale stammers after taking a few moments to recover. He fusses with the hem of his vest and smooths the fabric. “Indeed, er, rather. That’s settled, I suppose. Then, I’m happy to help you experiment, should you wish to.”

Crowley grins wickedly. "That right? Hey, I'll try anything once."

Aziraphale hides his smile behind his hand. "Oh - you know what I mean. It just sounds like you have no great loyalty to any of humanity's self imposed labels."

Crowley hums and rubs his chin thoughtfully. "Mm. That's more from wanting everything, though. Just greedy like that, I suppose." He shrugs casually. "I mean, why should you have to stick with any one thing? It doesn't need to be all black and white and binaries - s'no fun that way, is it?"

"More for you, then," Aziraphale says lightly. "I'd be happy to be done with all of it, if I'm being honest."

"I see how it is," Crowley says slyly. "You're more like - 'Gender? Who's got the time?'"

Aziraphale considers it, then shrugs and nods at once. "More or less."

"Ah. An answer about as vague as your gender." Aziraphale laughs, and Crowley smirks, playfully curling an arm around his waist to pull him closer. "Makes sense, what with you being an angel, and all."

Aziraphale sobers slightly, chuckling humorlessly. “Apparently it would have been much easier if I _were_ an angel. No scars, no injections. No paperwork.”

“Oh, there’s loads of paperwork still, can’t avoid that. Easier? Maybe in some ways. But it would have been different, too. You’d be different.” Crowley leans in to kiss his temple. “Wouldn’t be _you_.”

Aziraphale is beaming when he pulls back, and Crowley clears his throat, cheeks warm.

“What.”

“You’re so soft, dear,” Aziraphale sighs affectionately, sliding his hands over his shoulders to draw him in.

“Shut up,” Crowley growls without heat, closing the rest of the gap to kiss him properly, and Aziraphale meets him gladly.

They’re interrupted by a strange sound coming from the coffee maker Crowley had purchased for the flat - it has elements of its usual cheery jingle, but the pitch and tempo are discordant and warped.

Aziraphale looks over at it and blinks. “That’s new.”

“Oh, come on. It can’t be broken already,” Crowley groans.

“I warned you - engineered failure. This is why I avoid the use of modern machines,” Aziraphale sniffs.

Crowley grumbles and pulls away to inspect the machine. As he closes in the chain around his neck begins to burn - he can’t be sure if it’s that, or the unease of realization that he’s being contacted settling in that makes his throat feel tight. His eyes are drawn to the small digital screen and the words drifting across it like a song title too long for a music player. 

IT’S TIME TO CHECK IN CROWLEY

“Shit.”

For them to reach out the morning he had planned to go to them felt like too much of a coincidence. But they couldn’t have known. There’s no way they could have known. He’s sure of it.

He distantly hears Aziraphale’s concerned voice. “What is it?”

WE EXPECT YOU HERE PROMPTLY

The lights flicker then go dark as the breaker trips, leaving the flat lit by just the dim morning sunrise filtering in through the drapes, casting the room in unsettling oranges and reds.

The message continues to scroll, unconcerned by things such as electricity and logic.

DO NOT DISAPPOINT US CROWLEY

AND DO NOT KEEP BEELZEBUB WAITING

Crowley turns his head, looking into Aziraphale’s bewildered expression.

“Time for work,” he says grimly.

—

Crowley walks through winding, damp halls, making his way deeper into the pits of Hell.

Well, _walking_ might be too generous of a way to describe it.

He feels vaguely as if he’s in a pinball machine as he gets shoved and jostled by the absurd amount of commuting demons. Anyone unfamiliar with the place might imagine he would attempt to avoid the worst of the crowds by staying close to the walls, but the problem with that is that the walls are utterly, indescribably revolting - revolting to the point of being a literal hazard.

He’s not sure if the DO NOT LICK THE WALLS signage is in reaction to the tacky residue, or if said residue is a result of said wall licking. Regardless, they function essentially like a giant glue trap - if you so much as brush against them, you _stick._

He’ll take the pushing and elbows to his ribs, thanks.

(He’s been cautious since losing more than one good coat to that wall. He still regrets losing his Pink Ladies varsity jacket in the late 70’s. Every time he passed through he had looked at it longingly until Hell did their semi-annual scrape of the walls to remove the buildup of items and the occasional unlucky, and by that point very bored, demon.)

When he reaches his destination he gives the door a reluctant knock and it slowly swings open, hinges grating, to permit his entry.

Beelzebub’s office is cozier than most simply by nature of its geographical proximity to Satan Himself, which makes it slightly warmer. It’s still a featureless concrete box like most other rooms in Hell, reminiscent of a jail cell and about as welcoming as one. Behind a long desk laden with files and flies, Beelzebub sits in an imposing throne built out of metal with sharp, sweeping features - and bones, of course, because the architects of Hell are nothing if not consistent.

He looks ridiculously tiny sitting in the intimidating construction. For anyone else, it might ruin the image they’re aiming for - it’s a testament to his reputation and rank that the disparity does nothing to ease Crowley’s profound dread upon meeting Beelzebub’s icy gaze.

“Crowley. Kept me waiting, as usual.”

Crowley steps back into a low, sweeping bow. “Lord Beelzebub. Such an honor to be in your presence, as always,” he croons, sickly sweet and utterly insincere.

“Obviously. Sit.”

Crowley obediently takes a seat on a rickety stool opposite him. Beelzebub drums his fingers on the arm of his chair as he considers him.

“Report on the progress of your assignment.”

Crowley immediately begins rattling off. “S’going great, obviously. As expected. Certainly felt inspired after that lecture you so very kindly sent me to, so thanks for that, of course. I’m quite on the good side of the American witch by now. Learning a lot about her. Witchy… things. Y’know, I actually managed to-”

Beelzebub abruptly raises a palm and he clamps his mouth shut in response.

“Enough. What of the child?”

Crowley freezes.

“Child?”

Beelzebub buzzes impatiently. “Yezz! The child. The one that is always close to your witch.”

Crowley opens and closes his mouth uselessly before recovering. “Ah, right. Of course. That one. The, uh - the child appears to have developed some sort of abilities. Wondering if you knew much about that? Bit odd for a kid. Generally.”

Beelzebub pointedly ignores his rambling. “I was told that the child disposed of a group of our agents that were sent to observe him. Did you witness this?”

“I - I did.”

Observing _Adam?_

So Hell isn’t on to him - they're already aware of and on to Adam. It’s somehow less comforting.

A wicked grin breaks out on Beelzebub’s face and Crowley would very much prefer if the scowl came back. Flies dart around him erratically, feverishly, picking up on the thrum of energy their keeper exudes. Crowley struggles not to swat at one that lands on his forehead - he’s witnessed what happens to demons that crush, shoo or look too hard at Beelzebub’s flies.

“Thizz iz good news. _Very_ good news. You know, your witch was meant to be a demonic influence on the child when we led her to him, but she proved ineffective in provoking his powers.”

“Did she.”

Exactly how long have they been observing him?

“A shameful failure. But, one just need find the right influences - someone to nudge at his naturally destructive nature. Since your intervention, the development of his powers has accelerated immensely. You certainly came through for us on this one, Crowley.”

Crowley’s eye twitches as the fly crawls down his cheek.

“Ah. Well. I live to serve,” he manages painfully.

“I am well aware. This is only a trial run, of course. Your assignment will come to an end when we’ve learned what we need and it is time to remove the child. If you keep this up, you’ll likely be chosen to deliver the true Antichrist at that time.”

The fly takes off.

Crowley stares.

“You’re speechless. Of course. I’m sure it’s hard for a lesser demon such as yourself to imagine ever being graced with such an honor,” Beelzebub says dismissively as he shuffles through the file in front of him. “We are revising your assignment. You are to keep tabs on the witch to ensure she does not further impede the child’s growth, as well as continue your provocation of his powers. Do you understand?”

“Sounds great,” Crowley says distantly.

“Good. That izz all for now. You may leave. We shall be in touch.”

Something isn’t lining up for him.

“I have a question, my lord. If I may,” Crowley says hesitantly, and Beelzebub regards him silently, so he continues. “Why was I not assigned to observe the child instead of the witch from the start?”

Crowley flinches as the chain flares angrily against his neck and Beelzebub scoffs as if Crowley is intentionally, brazenly wasting his time. “Is it not obvious? We had to know that you were trustworthy. Your credibility was in question. Are you surprised, when you spurned your responsibilities for so long?” He scowls viciously down at him, tolerance for his existence waning dangerously. “You’re lucky that He is amused by your stupid games. I just want things to get done, Crowley. Now get out of my sight and _get them done_.”

Crowley stands and bows stiffly. “Of course. I’ll, uh, keep up with the unleashing powers beyond my comprehension, and all that.”

Beelzebub buzzes in something like a snarl, and Crowley takes that as his cue to retreat. The door snaps closed behind him and he doesn’t slow until his chain begins to cool.

Free from the threat of immediate extinction, he takes out his phone to send a warning.

—

Anathema physically recoils at the Hellish energy rolling off of him when he arrives at her flat.

“Wow. Yep, I can definitely tell you’ve just come from work.”

“Yeah. Listen, I’ve got news about Adam.”

She ushers him inside and they sit at the dining table, where he fills her in on everything - well, mostly everything. Crowley leaves out the part where he was tasked to provoke Adam’s powers, and that his intervention in their group is what ended up being the trigger for them in the first place. He’s certain - rather, sort of sure - that it would have happened eventually whether he was there or not.

Probably.

Either way, he doesn’t feel too inclined to incriminate himself on that one for the time being.

Anathema sits back in her chair when he’s done, staring in disbelief.

“The _Antichrist?_ ”

“The trial Antichrist,” Crowley corrects. “Likely they’ll just bring him back to Hell when they’re done using him here. He’s still Satan’s son, after all. I’m sure he’ll get a cushy position Down There.”

“What would a cushy position in Hell be?”

“Have you eaten recently?” Crowley wrinkles his nose when she nods. “S’probably best I don’t tell you, then.”

Anathema groans and buries her face in her hands. “I have no idea where to even start with this.”

“Well, if his abilities are those of a true Antichrist, he should be able to mould the world however he likes - little perk of the job. Maybe _he_ can do something about it.”

Anathema worries at her lip. “So we’ll have to tell him.”

“Yep.” Crowley sighs and taps a finger distractedly on the table as he thinks. “He’s not ready to hear it with where he’s at now, though. I’d rather not preemptively trigger Armageddon.”

Anathema hums in agreement. “Well, he misses the book club, right? Maybe if we start that up again, start introducing some normality back for him…” she trails off and sighs wearily. “It doesn’t feel like much in terms of averting an apocalypse, but if it’s important to Adam, maybe it will help.”

They fall into an uncomfortable silence as they consider their next steps, and Anathema eventually speaks up.

“Why would you help us? Shouldn’t you want this to happen? Being an agent of Hell, and all.”

Crowley frowns thoughtfully. “Want the end of the world? Nah. Made myself quite comfortable up here after so long. I may be a demon, but humanity is so - there’s so much to - I mean, it just seems a waste, doesn’t it?”

Anathema gives him a small, warm smile. “Well, it’s good to have you on our side. Thank you, Crowley - for all of this.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Crowley grumbles. “I won’t be much help if Hell finds out what we’re up to and decides my continued existence is inconvenient.”

Anathema leans on the table on her crossed arms, brow creasing in thought. “Then you’ll need some sort of protection. I’ve been thinking about your signature and ways we could mask or remove it. At least then you can’t be discovered so easily if you need to do some divine - uh - infernal interference.”

“Really.” Crowley’s phone buzzes. He glances at it and clicks his tongue. “Well, we’ll work on that. I’m heading out.”

“What is it?”

“Aziraphale. Turns out he worries when you pop into Hell for the day,” Crowley shrugs casually.

Anathema eyes him dubiously. “So you told him. He actually believed you?”

Crowley leans back in his chair with a smug grin. “What can I say, I can be quite persuasive when I want to be.”

(He pointedly does not mention the fact that he had a near miss with a full blown panic attack in the process of said persuading.)

Anathema narrows her eyes and Crowley throws his arms up indignantly. “Oh, come on. I’m not an animal, I didn’t _make_ him do anything.”

Anathema relaxes. “That’s - okay. Sorry, sorry. I’ve just been trying to convince him for years and he’s never budged. How did you do it?”

Crowley flicks a forked tongue at her and Anathema wrinkles her nose.

“Yeah, I do _not_ need that much detail.”

Crowley chokes. “That’s _not_ what I meant-”

It wasn’t, though the gesture was still rather apt, in hindsight.

She rolls her eyes. “Uh huh. Well, you can’t blame me for jumping there. Ask anyone who’s been around you two for more than a few minutes-”

He ducks his head and holds a hand up in surrender. “Alright. Okay. I’m going home.”

Anathema smiles innocently as he abruptly stands and makes his way towards the door. “ _Home?_ That talk really did go well! I suppose I’ll definitely be seeing you at the meetings next week, then? Seeing as you’ll be at the shop anyway.”

“You’re awful. Shut up. Bye.”

He makes a rude hand gesture as he heads out of the flat.

“See you next week,” he calls back.

He can still hear Anathema’s laughter as he makes his way down the hall, and Crowley grins despite himself. Insufferable brat.

He’s glad to have good company at the start of the end of the world.

—

When he returns it takes a bit of time to reassure Aziraphale that yes, the Hell thing got off alright - which is a bit of a stretch, but he’s still in one piece, after all. That’s a win when dealing with Beelzebub.

Eventually they settle into a blessedly normal and achingly domestic scene, the two of them comfortably sharing the small couch in the office. Aziraphale is reading a recent addition to his collection - something about fish markets, for whatever reason it is that he fixates on _any_ particular subject - attention rapt, cradling a cup of cocoa that had long since gone cold. Crowley is sprawled out in a way that vaguely resembles sitting, his legs draped over Aziraphale’s lap, trying to quiet his mind enough to catch up on the reading for the upcoming book club meetings.

It’s… nice.

Maybe he’s getting sentimental because he knows this is a fleeting moment.

It can’t last, can it? Hell is preparing for Armageddon. He’s supposedly here on a mission to aid that cause and his infernal keepers will certainly notice something is off eventually. He and Anathema are going to attempt to recruit the trial Antichrist to thwart the apocalypse-that-could-be, which in no world will end well for him, even if they succeed. Maybe especially if they succeed.

Plus, he’s an immortal demon, and Aziraphale - well. It doesn’t bear thinking about, does it?

Crowley is redoubling his efforts to focus on the words in front of him when Aziraphale pats his knee - he looks up to see Aziraphale sliding his book and mug onto the desk, so he shifts his legs from his lap to allow him to stand. Aziraphale straightens out his vest once he’s on his feet and gives Crowley a small smile. “Well! I believe it’s time to call it a night.”

Crowley hesitates, not sure if he should assume he’s invited - then Aziraphale turns to look at him expectantly on his way out of the office.

“Are you coming, dear?”

That answers that. “Yeah. Yep. Just a mo’.”

He hasn’t told Aziraphale yet that he doesn’t need to and usually can’t sleep every night - he’ll gladly accept being welcomed into his bed for a while longer. He’s certain he’ll be awake all night with his mind buzzing regardless of if he’s alone downstairs or has Aziraphale wrapped up comfortably in his arms, so it’s just sensible to accept the offer, really.

For basking purposes, of course.

Aziraphale changes into a dreadful tartan nightgown in preparation for bed. He gives Crowley a once over, eyeing him doubtfully, as if _his_ clothing choices are the ones that should be in question here.

“Would you like to borrow something? Certainly it can’t be very comfortable sleeping in that.”

Crowley looks over himself. He’d shed his layers and accessories down to his trousers and button up shirt. It’s not uncomfortable - his clothes are never uncomfortable. They know better.

(Also, he’d rather discorporate than wear a tartan nightgown, which he imagines is probably all that Aziraphale owns. The man doesn’t have a very versatile wardrobe - he had picked a look, presumably from the racks of an antique thrift store, and stuck with it. Though he had, on one memorable occasion, humored Crowley and tried on his sunglasses and a leather jacket left behind by a customer. Crowley kicks himself to this day for not taking a picture.)

“S’fine,” he says with a shrug, then a wicked grin blooms on his face. “Hey. Want to see a neat trick?”

Aziraphale squints in suspicion and Crowley holds his arms out placatingly.

“What, don’t trust me?”

“God help me, I do,” Aziraphale mutters. “Alright, show me.”

Crowley snaps his fingers and immediately he’s dressed in a comfortable slate shirt with a scooped neckline and black satin sleeping pants - and Aziraphale’s nightgown is different.

Aziraphale looks at his own outfit in horror. “Buffalo plaid? Whatever did I do to deserve this?”

“Aw, it’s stylish,” Crowley quips. “Much better than drab old tartan.”

Aziraphale crosses his arms and stares him down, unimpressed.

“Alright, alright.” With a snap of his fingers Aziraphale is in a flannel sleep set in light tartan, pleasantly worn in despite not having existed moments prior. “At least dress for the century, angel.”

“It’s better,” Aziraphale says uncertainly. “I don’t hate it.”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Nightgown’s in the dresser.”

Aziraphale brightens up immediately. “Oh, good. Well then. Shall we?”

They climb into bed and once they’re settled in, Aziraphale reaches out and feels the fabric along the low neckline of his shirt. “That looks much more comfortable.” He frowns thoughtfully and runs a finger over the long chain around Crowley’s neck. “I didn’t realize you wore your jewelry to bed. I must not have noticed with the high collar-”

Crowley winces and he stops the movement immediately.

“Crowley?”

“It’s - that doesn’t come off. Ever.”

Aziraphale’s hand flinches away as if he had just been burned. “Is it-?”

“Hell’s leash. S’fine. You can touch it, it won’t hurt you,” Crowley explains dismissively.

“Does it hurt _you?_ ”

He hesitates, remembering Beelzebub’s wrath earlier that day, the searing of the metal against his skin.

“Not usually,” he answers lightly.

Aziraphale exhales. “Oh, Crowley-”

“None of that. I got myself here,” Crowley cuts in curtly. He narrows his eyes mischievously. “Anyway, I thought we might discuss something a little more enjoyable.”

“You’re sure-”

“I’m sure,” Crowley says firmly.

Aziraphale takes a breath and nods, as if assuring himself, and the tension in his frame relaxes. He presses a hand against Crowley’s collarbone, brushing a thumb against his cool skin. “Alright. And what was it that you wanted to discuss?”

“Oh, y’know. Just thinking about our conversation earlier,” Crowley says casually. Aziraphale’s face lights up in recognition and Crowley grins. “Thinking about your offer-”

Crowley gasps as Aziraphale wastes no time, playfully pushing him into the bed as he had that morning and nudging Crowley’s long legs to position himself between them. He tilts his head, looking down at him with a deceptively sweet smile. “Now, which offer was that? Could you mean this one?”

Crowley can feel his skin warming as an eager flush spreads on his face. “That’s the one,” he breathes.

Aziraphale’s eyes darken in a way that is very, very promising. Crowley licks his lips.

“I assume you’ve made your effort, then?”

“Like to do it while you touch me, if it’s all the same to you.”

Aziraphale smiles softly and leans in. “It would be my pleasure.”

Crowley sighs at the tender press of lips against the snake mark on his cheekbone, then his jaw, then his neck, and shudders under the warm hands sliding over his cool skin. Aziraphale is so slow, so methodical, so gentle that when he unexpectedly nips, drags his nails, digs in his fingers, Crowley can’t help but reward him with gasps and whimpers.

Crowley relishes every sensation - the wet kisses against the column of his throat, the thumb brushing teasingly over his nipples, the thigh pressing between his legs, the weight and warmth of Aziraphale above him - and when he makes his choice, like a dial getting twisted, everything is suddenly just _more_. He arches into it and moans, and Aziraphale catches his mouth, multiplies that heat in a kiss growing more urgent.

When Aziraphale finally pulls back, breathless, he looks down at Crowley in wonder. “You are so lovely, dear,” he breathes, gently pressing their foreheads together. “So beautiful. So good.”

Crowley groans helplessly and squeezes his eyes shut like he’s in pain. “ _Aziraphale_.“

Aziraphale presses a soft kiss against his temple. “Are you ready?”

Crowley nods fervently and Aziraphale trails his way down his body, leaving kisses in his wake until he reaches his hips. He hooks a finger in Crowley’s waistband and gives it a tug, looking up at him imploringly.

“Be a dear?”

“Making me do all the work,” Crowley scoffs lightly.

He clicks his fingers and the offending garment is gone. He’s rewarded with an appreciative sound from Aziraphale, which could be directed at the trick or at the effort he’d made for himself.

“Well! And you teased _me_ for going commando.”

Crowley wants to quip that he’ll never get to know what he was wearing underneath because he’d asked to magic the clothing away, but Aziraphale kisses the crease where his thigh meets his hip and the words get caught in his throat.

“Oh, my. You’re very sensitive,” Aziraphale says mildly, lightly dragging his lips over his skin.

“It’s been a while,” Crowley admits weakly. “And I’ve never had - it’s, uh, different.”

Crowley can feel Aziraphale’s sly smile against his hip.

“Well, let’s pray that I can make your first time memorable, then.”

He certainly does. Aziraphale takes to eating Crowley out in the way he does every task laid before him - studiously, completely, and with great consideration.

Though, he does use rather a lot more tongue in this case.

He’s also very responsive - in both manners of the word. He steadily adjusts to Crowley’s needs and, frankly, he’s _vocal as hell_. Crowley pointedly does not compare it to when he’s eating a particularly fine meal, in part because the sounds he’s making now are entirely more depraved, and in part because Aziraphale’s confident hands join his hot mouth and Crowley is helpless to think about anything else.

When Aziraphale slides the second sturdy digit into the wet heat of him and those lovely, deft fingers rock into him, taking on a torturously languorous pace, Crowley whines, because God - Satan - someone - he’s sure this ruffled dove of a human is about to discorporate him with nothing but two fingers and a tongue, which makes him feel about as pathetic as it makes him want so much _more._

Aziraphale withdraws and presses a reverent kiss into Crowley’s thigh before pushing himself up to admire the shivering, heaving demon below him. “Look at you, divine creature that you are,” he breathes, daring to make Crowley feel precious in his gaze. “Tell me what you want.”

“Everything,” Crowley rasps. “Just - more, angel, please-”

“Anything for you, dear,” Aziraphale murmurs as he leans back in, and Crowley’s world is once again all hot mouth and broad hands, and it’s - everything.

When Aziraphale licks into him with broad strokes and hums deeply in pleasure the vibration of it shakes through him and - _oh_ \- Crowley bucks against that eager mouth with a choked cry, and Aziraphale responds, pushes him over the edge, rides out the shudder that’s wracking his body with slow, firm caresses of his tongue and the crook of his fingers.

“Fuck! ‘Zira- ah-”

He’s a writhing, panting mess by the end as Aziraphale brings him to his climax once, and again, and one more time for good measure.

When he’s satisfied that Crowley has been thoroughly seen to, Aziraphale climbs back up to meet him. He pulls the sheets over them and circles his arms around Crowley’s still trembling body, and Crowley leans into the embrace with a bone-tired sigh.

He expects he might actually sleep tonight, after that.

Aziraphale noses gently into his hair when he leans in. “Have I repaid the favor, do you think?”

“Rigorously,” Crowley mumbles against his shoulder. “In fact, I might have to catch up, after all that,” he adds slyly.

Crowley feels Aziraphale’s smile. “Oh? Does that mean that I’m winning?”

Crowley makes sure he feels the answering sneer. “Absolutely not. Can’t win at lust against a demon. S’just… built in, I think.”

Aziraphale makes a doubtful sound. “Obviously you haven’t read some of the books in the back room. I’m certain that some of them could cause even a succubus to blush. People are inventively obscene.”

Crowley immediately perks up from his sated state and pushes back so he can see Aziraphale’s face. “Excuse me? Did you just tell me that you have a porn room?”

“Excuse you indeed! It’s not _porn_ ,” Aziraphale scoffs derisively. “It’s erotic literature!”

“You have a porn room,” Crowley repeats with exaggerated disbelief, and Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “My angel. My beautiful, horny angel.”

Aziraphale looks skyward and mouths something that looks suspiciously like ‘God give me strength’ before pulling a laughing Crowley back against his chest. “Enough, you fiend. And for heaven’s sake, put your pants back on.”

“Oh, right.” Crowley halfheartedly snaps his fingers. “Thought something felt off.”

Held against Aziraphale’s body, enveloped in his warmth, his giddy energy is quickly rolled over by exhaustion. When they finally settle, Aziraphale plants a soft kiss against his temple and lazily and soothingly traces slow circles on Crowley’s back - where his wings would be - until he drifts off.

Crowley focuses on the slow movement of Aziraphale’s steady breathing, his heat, the weight of his arm slung over his side, and closes his eyes.

It’s a brief respite - humanity’s metaphorical clock had begun to tick the moment Adam had been placed on earth, and left unchecked for years, that time was quickly running out.

But for tonight, Crowley sleeps soundly, too.

—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to North (Northisnotup) for being the loveliest, most indulgent beta!  
> I hope y'all enjoy the extra art this chapter, I was obviously very taken with the different jackets mentioned  
> Thanks to everyone for your lovely comments, they sustain my hyper focus on this very fun project!!


	8. CHAPTER EIGHT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley stumbles through difficult conversations with exactly the amount of grace expected of him.

Making a plan to thwart Armageddon is, unsurprisingly, a profoundly stressful affair. 

Crowley and Anathema do what they can to make it more tolerable and, in the human fashion, they decide that means meeting at Anathema’s flat to conspire over a bottle of wine. One bottle evolves into three, and then spirals into a number which would prefer to remain anonymous - commonly known as ‘one too many.’

It’s at that point that Anathema assigns Newton a vitally important task.

“Sorry, can you explain to me again why it is my solemn duty to pick up your takeaway for you?”

“Newt. Honey. _Love_ of my _life_ ,” Anathema says drunkenly, twisting to look up at him from her spot on the sofa. “We are trying to avert the apocop - acropolis. We can’t leave this flat until we have a plan.”

Newton leans on his elbows on the back of the couch, regarding her fondly. “You could get it delivered.”

Anathema looks at him very seriously. “Absolutely not. Do you know how expensive that is?”

Newton hums thoughtfully. “Five pounds, I think?”

“I have three quid,” Crowley offers from the floor.

“He has _three quid_ , Newt,” Anathema mourns. “We can’t do this without you.”

Crowley sits up from laying next to the sofa, a spot which he had claimed loudly as his own an hour previous to absolutely no objections.

“Or chow mein,” he adds helpfully.

“Or chow mein,” Anathema repeats firmly.

Newton nods indulgently. “Alright, how about this?” He gently slides the bottle that Anathema had taken to drinking from directly out of her hands. “You get a glass of water and I’ll go pick up your food. I think that’s a fair deal.”

She leaps up to wrap her arms around his neck in a clumsy, grateful embrace, and Newton laughs. It’s a sweet moment - that is, until the open bottle in his hand sloshes a healthy serving of wine onto the floor.

Or as it had temporarily been declared with drunken confidence, Crowley’s house.

More specifically onto Crowley himself.

The ensuing scene is a little too chaotic for him to follow in his particularly sozzled state - he recalls Newton fiercely apologizing and throwing what might have been ten towels at him, Anathema having a fit of uncontrollable laughter and, when she inevitably rolls off of the couch, trying to evict her from _his_ floor when she refuses to get up.

Newt appears again with their takeaway and extra spring rolls in apology, so there’s that.

(Crowley hadn’t planned to and doesn’t eat any of his, of course, but he figures Anathema will appreciate having leftovers while she’s nursing a hangover the next day.)

Against all odds and despite the nonspecific, yet too many, bottles of wine, they do actually make progress. Crowley takes notes on his phone over the course of the night, and they identify what are to become their three major priorities.

His notes app lists said priorities as follows:

Dleua

Enlsit

PrepAre

After some deciphering when he’s sober the next morning including some back and forth with Anathema, they agree to use voice dictation from that point on.

Also, they finalize their agenda moving forward.

Delay, enlist, and prepare.

So, to slow Hell’s progress Crowley finds himself visiting Downstairs more often than he’d like, attempting to glean information while feeding them meaningless platitudes claiming progression. Part of that strategy is telling them about his deal with Anathema. It’s a simple lie by omission - when he tells Dagon vaguely of tempting her to _their_ side they assume he means _Hell’s_ side, which he’d been counting on. It seems to please his infernal keepers enough. At least they stop breathing down his neck for the time being.

As for enlisting Adam’s help, they begin meeting for clubs again and the aura around the shop steadily recovers, smoothing and sharpening it’s previously shaky embrace. Adam’s mood improves along with it, and Anathema thinks that soon enough they'll be ready to talk to him about his place in this mess.

So, at least a few things are going right.

Unfortunately, the inverse is true as well.

Crowley is struggling - or rather, failing miserably - in his preparations. Removing his demonic signature from his miracles is proving more difficult than expected, and goes wrong in both new and concerning ways.

They decide it would be easiest to practice by diverting packages, the same way he had at the demonic seminar, because it leaves a distinct aura on a physical thing they can monitor. Even better, by redirecting them to established addresses, Anathema could try to detect his signature amongst regular deliveries as a sort of test.

It’s a good plan. A lovely plan. Except it doesn’t work.

First of all, he’s yet to scrub his aura off of any of the packages successfully. Secondly, none of the parcels show up at the addresses that he tells them to, apparently willfully ignoring his bidding.

Not only is he useless at covering his own tracks - he’s losing control over his powers.

It’s not so much that it completely changes the outcome he’s aiming for, but it _is_ enough to push it a little to the left, and frankly, at this point the number of deliveries that turn up at the bookshop without his meaning to is humiliating.

(It’s not affecting just the parcels. He’s horrified when he snaps himself into a new outfit and the lining of his jacket collar comes out tartan. He tries again and it comes out the usual red - but he knows he’ll always feel it there, haunting him, like some sort of questionably dressed ghost.)

The pile of misdelivered misdeliveries starts out small, stacked neatly on the table in the nook behind the office. Soon enough it spills over haphazardly onto the chairs, and then the floor around the chairs, and he’s just started stacking them around the Amstrad - because surely Aziraphale is pulling his leg about actually using that ancient thing, it looks like it dates back to the Nativity, for Satan’s sake - when Aziraphale finally crossly insists that Crowley move them.

After a rather passive aggressive conversation about what constitutes clutter in the most chaotic bookshop that Crowley has ever observed, he shoves all of the parcels unceremoniously behind the room divider, muttering strings of expletives and blessings at the wretched things for not just following his instructions in the first place.

Anathema arrives following a wall of his increasingly agitated texts and finds him brooding in the back nook.

“Alright, you’ve piqued my interest. What’s happened that has you sending me such delightful messages, including but not limited to,” she glances down at her phone, “great pustulant mangled bollocks, directed at,” she glances down again, “Royal Mail, the van you rode in on, London - just _all_ of it, I guess - and God?”

Crowley glares pointedly at the divider and she looks at it a touch warily.

“Okay, before I look at that I’m just going to put this out there for no particular reason,” she says with a hopeful cheerfulness, like she would really prefer if what she’s about to say were to stay a joke but isn’t convinced it will, “I did not come here prepared to hide a body. No shovel, for starters.”

Crowley gives her his shiniest, most sarcastic smile. “Well, there’s no shovel back there, but there _is_ a huge bloody wrench in our plans,” he hisses through his teeth.

She folds up the panels and Crowley is glad he can’t see her face when she makes a sound that somehow manages to convey both amusement and a deep, helpless existential dread. She turns back slowly, her expression expertly schooled neutral.

“There appears to be a few more than last time,” she says politely.

Crowley runs a hand down his face in frustration, dropping all pretence of composure. “I don’t understand why this is happening,” he groans miserably around his fingers.

“Just give me a minute to look at these,” Anathema says sympathetically, picking up a package and turning it over in her hands. “I think I might be starting to.”

She turns her attention to the hoard as a whole and begins deliberately sorting through it. Crowley waits for some time while she works, trying in vain not to look at the mountain of his failures in the corner of the room. Every time he does his mind inevitably wanders to the damned tartan collar.

It’s too much. Maybe he should just lose this jacket to the fly trap walls of Hell and start over.

Crowley scuffs his shoe dejectedly against the floor. “So,” he sniffs. “What’s the verdict?”

When Anathema doesn’t answer he wills himself to look up and sees her staring at the parcel in her hands.

Most worryingly, Crowley is fairly certain that she’s _blushing._

“Anathema,” he says cautiously. “What is it?”

“It’s, well - it’s a lot,” she answers, as if that’s an answer. “Do you know if uh, theoretically, a demon’s powers could be negatively affected by the opposite of-”

“Anathema! Oh, thank goodness you’re here.”

Crowley doesn’t miss the relief briefly flashing over Anathema’s face before they turn to the interruption. Aziraphale approaches them, looking quite frazzled.

“Please, I need you to try to talk some sense into Crowley. He won’t listen to me! The sheer amount of these parcels, and the - the morality of such brazen misappropriation-”

“Oh, come off it, angel,” Crowley snorts, and Aziraphale shoots him a look. “Come on. We both know you just don’t want any couriers hanging about, daring to browse your shop.”

Aziraphale rounds on him. “This is _theft_ ,” he whispers sternly, poking an accusatory finger into Crowley’s chest.

He swats it away and scoffs. “They’ll get replaced. It’s an inconvenience, at worst.”

“They could very well contain something important,” Aziraphale presses. “Like - like medicine, or something time sensitive, or irreplaceable-”

“I _know_ what’s in them. It’s all garbage that humans buy when they’re pissed,” Crowley sighs in exasperation, as if Aziraphale had just ruined his perfectly good joke by asking him to explain it. “Wouldn't be fun if I were delaying some sick kid's medicine, would it? Look at this.”

Crowley considers the mess of parcels before picking out a small package.

“Y’know what’s in here? A pen. One single pen. In it’s own box, wrapped in bubble wrap, surrounded by packing paper, shoved in another box. Came from California. This single pen traveled across America and the Atlantic because some human got wasted and _really_ fancies the color purple,” he says, rattling the small box for emphasis. “Should be thanking me, really. S’like punishing them for all that waste.”

“Uh, we know they’re getting replaced, so I don’t think you can claim the moral high ground here. You’re literally doubling the environmental impact,” Anathema says very reasonably - Aziraphale points and nods emphatically in agreement, largely out of pettiness. “Also, I distinctly remember you encouraging me to order a pen with little ducks on it the other day. You know - when we were drunk?”

She looks meaningfully at the parcel in his hands. Crowley’s smug expression falters.

“Well, you know, it’s - it’s the _principle_ of the thing,” he mutters. “Anyway, you didn’t order it, did you? Said shipping was too expensive,” he says in a tone that might suggest that he’s a little sore about it. “S’not the same at all.”

He ignores her skeptical expression by plucking out another parcel, about the length of his forearm and marginally wider.

“They’re all rubbish like that,” he insists. “This one’s a recorder. Bought it so their nephew could torment their sister.” He chucks it, grabs another, and starts doing so in rapid succession. “Coffee mug printed with their own face. Scented candle. Bookmark. Anal beads. Novelty office supplies shaped like cats. Bell,” he tosses it and it sings out one beautiful note before it falls to the floor with a discordant crash, “Er, badly packaged bell, hair dryer, one hundred tiny doll hands, another scented candle-”

Aziraphale watches the mess of carelessly thrown parcels grow with increasing aggravation and finally snatches the next victim from Crowley’s hands, tucking it under his arm protectively. He gives it a gentle pat to assure it that it’s safe, as if he isn’t holding a rather indifferent cardboard box.

“You don’t get to decide what is too trivial or peculiar for someone else. You ought to return all of these yourself,” he sniffs.

Crowley laughs harshly in disbelief. “You want me to go around returning people’s property? Bad look for a demon, don’t you think?”

Aziraphale draws up and looks down his nose at him. “I don’t care how it looks, you’re the one that stole them to begin with! If you’re not going to return them, then you need to start sending them elsewhere-”

“Alright, that’s enough.” Anathema steps in between them. “Look, Aziraphale. We need to do this. Maybe it’s inconvenient and uh, morally grey, potentially bordering on illegal - actually, scratch that, it’s definitely illegal - but it’s important for his safety.”

Aziraphale’s demeanor shifts immediately.

He takes a step back, glancing between the two of them, alarm clear on his face. “His safety?”

Crowley gives Anathema a pointed look and she raises her eyebrows at him incredulously, then looks back at Aziraphale with a strained smile. “Sorry, did I say safety? I meant to say it’s just a precaution.”

Aziraphale narrows his eyes. “A precaution against what, exactly?”

Anathema glances desperately at Crowley. “Demon things?”

“Demon things,” Crowley agrees with a nod.

Aziraphale unceremoniously drops the parcel tucked under his arm and puts his hands on his hips, looking between the two of them with mounting frustration. “Would one of you care to explain what’s going on here?”

Anathema raises her palms defensively. “I’m sorry, genuinely, but you didn’t even believe I was a witch until you shacked up with a _literal demon_ -” Crowley covers his face and Aziraphale sputters, “-and this is a lot for the two of us to deal with, let alone someone who’s new to the occult.”

Anathema looks sidelong at Crowley.

“Also, I honestly thought that he told you? So, that’s his bad.”

Crowley mouths ‘traitor’ and she shrugs.

“I understand. I do. However, I believe it is only fair that I be included in these plans considering it appears that _my shop_ is where you’ve chosen to direct your spoils.” Aziraphale glances at Crowley. “And… considering the safety of others could be at risk.”

They both turn to Crowley now, and he briefly daydreams about how lovely it would be to turn into a snake and slither away. Maybe hide under a bookshelf for a century. He also imagines - quite accurately - that such a thing would likely not be particularly well received in this moment, so instead he motions to the front of the shop in defeat.

“You may as well close up, then. This’ll probably take a while,” he mutters reluctantly.

“Uh, how about I lock up on my way out?” Anathema takes a few steps back in preemptive retreat. “It seems like this is something you two need to talk out.”

When Anathema outright ignores Crowley’s pleading look, he changes tactics and instead thinks the phrases ‘just awful’ and ‘the worst’ very, very hard in her direction.

Aziraphale nods gratefully. “You may be right. Thank you, Anathema.”

“Yeah. Play nice, boys.”

Her departure is marked by the cheerful front bells, which would benefit from learning to read the room. Crowley stares at where she had been before finally forcing himself to look at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale smiles tightly. “How about a drink?”

Crowley nods weakly.

Instead of going upstairs, Aziraphale opens the liquor cabinet in the nook behind his office - the cabinet that he generally only pulls from in preparation for either extraordinarily good or extraordinarily bad business. Crowley holds the glass of wine he’s handed carefully, like he’d just been handed a stick of dynamite and not a lovely vintage red, as Aziraphale gets settled at the small table with his own drink.

“Okay, about the parcels-” he starts, but cuts himself off when the other man holds up a hand.

“I’d like to enjoy this first, please,” Aziraphale says simply.

So, Crowley waits. He slides his sunglasses into his jacket pocket, rubs his eyes with his thumb and forefinger wearily, and sighs.

He knows what’s happening, logically.

Aziraphale is a creature of habit and takes comfort and pleasure in order and predictability. When he’s bereft of that certainty, he finds ways to ground himself. Sometimes it’s a familiar ritual or a mindless task - something to give him time and space to adjust to change or prepare for discomfort.

He knows this. He knows Aziraphale.

Crowley waits and drains his glass a little too quickly out of nervousness, and the scales of their unease tip as Aziraphale slowly sips his wine, because having time to think means thinking, and thinking, in Crowley’s experience, is generally synonymous with _overthinking_.

(A well-honed talent developed over many millennia, overthinking is filed as a subsection under self sabotage, because even when Crowley is aware that he’s doing it he can’t stop. That’s irrelevant to the current situation, of course - _this_ line of thought is absolutely entirely rational and not at all fraught.)

He wonders if things would be better for Aziraphale if he just left. Made himself disappear. Yes, Adam was here before he was, so it isn’t entirely his fault that unearthly threats are landing on the shop’s doorstep, but certainly his presence isn’t helping things - Hell confirmed so when they told him he had helped to trigger Adam’s powers.

Though with Crowley here, Armageddon is no longer a sure thing - Hell had assigned possibly the only demon that would try to stop it to monitor the Antichrist, cries out one errant thought from the torrent ocean of his self-doubt.

He watches it drown uneasily.

Wouldn’t do, having hope. Makes it worse when you fail.

Aziraphale finishes his drink and places the glass gently on the table. He smooths out the fabric of his vest, folds his hands in his lap, and finally looks at Crowley.

“Now, where were we - ah, yes. You were about to explain the mortal danger you find yourself in?”

“Technically not _mortal_ danger,” Crowley says, too quickly, too eagerly, and Aziraphale looks unimpressed. He clears his throat awkwardly. “Okay, yeah. Alright. Uh, wow, where to begin.”

He paces in the small space and Aziraphale warily tracks his movement with his eyes. Crowley decides on starting broadly and with the basics - if you can call outlining a potential apocalypse basic in any way - which means telling Aziraphale about his assignment, about Adam as the trial Antichrist and Hell preparing for the apocalypse, then finally his and Anathema’s rather lofty goal of stopping Armageddon.

Yeah. Basic.

He knows his explanation is going poorly the moment he mentions his brief visit to Tadfield and the information he had gathered - specifically about Anathema running the book club - and Aziraphale’s unreadable expression slips slightly with the tightening of his jaw.

Then Crowley describes monitoring the bookshop because he thought the club meetings would be the easiest way to gather information, and Aziraphale’s face outright falls.

“That’s how it _started_ ,” Crowley emphasizes at seeing his expression. “I’m sure this is pretty clear at this point, but I’m not a stellar agent. I just took the assignment because I was-” he pauses, and opens and closes his mouth uselessly, “I was bored,” he finishes uncertainly.

“Bored,” Aziraphale repeats quietly.

He remains carefully neutral after that, silent as Crowley continues his explanation. Crowley isn’t entirely sure what reaction he had expected when detailing the start of the end of the world to Aziraphale, but this was definitely not it.

“…So, in the interest of averting Armageddon, those parcels are to practice removing my mark from demonic interventions,” Crowley says. “Theoretically, then Hell won’t know it’s _me_ trying to thwart the apocalypse. Gives us more time.”

Gives him a marginally better chance of surviving it.

“Those are the essentials. S’probably a good stopping point before your brain fries, I think.”

Aziraphale nods slowly, then stands to wordlessly retrieve another bottle from the liquor cabinet, which is a reaction that _does_ make sense to Crowley. He notices the slight tremor of Aziraphale’s hand as he pours before turning back and leaning heavily against the cupboard, less of a casual gesture and more of a bracing one.

“So. The end times,” he says grimly. “I’ll admit it’s not quite how I would have imagined it. Indeed, I’m sure that the more zealous of my relations will be disappointed that we seem to have entirely bypassed the rapture and skimmed over a few tribulations. I’m sure they were so looking forward to those.”

“Ah, well, remember we’re just in the trial run. If we cock this up they may still get a chance,” Crowley says with a lightness he doesn’t feel. “Though, ideally we’ll stop the true Antichrist from being placed on earth at all.”

Aziraphale makes one of those thoughtful, dithering sounds that he makes when he’s avoiding saying what he wants to. It can be endearing or exasperating depending on the context - in this scenario it’s definitely the latter.

Crowley frowns. “What is it?”

“Oh, you know. A lot of things to consider,” Aziraphale says quickly, somehow managing to be surprised that Crowley noticed his unsubtle hemming. He always seems surprised when he notices. Crowley isn’t sure how to break it to him that he’s the most aggressively passive aggressive human he’d ever met - it’s hard to miss. “It’s nothing of import.”

If Crowley were to roll his eyes any harder he might injure himself. “Obviously not. You did the thing. You know,” he makes a vague noise consisting of altogether too many syllables, and it’s not clear if he’s mimicking Aziraphale or struggling himself, “The _thing_.”

Aziraphale sucks on his teeth, not appreciating the interrogation. “I’m certain I have no idea what you’re talking about. I did no such,” and he trails off in a rough approximation of the ungodly sound Crowley had just made, “ _thing_.”

“You did. You absolutely did. It was the ‘I’m upset but don’t want to communicate it despite my therapist telling me that’s the healthy way to express human emotions’ sound you make.”

Aziraphale scoffs. “Oh, like you know so much about therapy.”

“We’ve talked about this,” Crowley grumbles. “Demons can’t go to therapy, can you even imagine? Worse than repentance, that. Satan’s emissaries going about feeling good about themselves, it’s just - oh, bloody - I _see you_ , you cheeky bastard. You’re not changing the topic. What’s wrong?”

Aziraphale huffs through his nose, put out at Crowley catching on to his deflection. “If you must know, I’m curious why you’d want to help us. If this is what Hell has been working towards, shouldn’t you want it to succeed?”

“Of course I don’t want _Armgeddon_ ,” Crowley hisses. It comes out harsher than he intends, but the question stings coming from Aziraphale in a way it hadn’t coming from Anathema. “Why would I? Angel, you _know_ me-”

“I don’t know that I do, actually,” Aziraphale snaps.

Crowley falters. He rocks on his heels and takes a step back, breathing out a startled, humorless laugh.

“I see. Alright,” he starts cautiously. “Well, if it somehow wasn't clear, I don’t give a sod what Hell wants. They stationed me up here and that was it for me. Humans are really something else, you know? Always surprising me with how clever and absurdly stubborn you are. I’ve learned a lot, being here for so long, and I want to keep learning. I want to keep being surprised. I want this.”

Crowley motions openly with his arms and hopes Aziraphale will understand that he’s gesturing to more than just the earth - he’s gesturing to crowded streets and winding motorways, tiny cafes that remember your name and bad coffee, cluttered bookshops and the charming humans that inhabit them.

One in particular, actually.

“ _This_ ,” he stresses, “is home.”

Aziraphale’s guarded expression softens, though not from affection or the overwhelming warmness he has graced Crowley with in the past.

He just looks tired.

“Why would you stay here if not for your assignment?” Aziraphale says quietly. “You’re here to collect intelligence for Hell, aren’t you? Because you were _bored_.”

A rush of understanding and the responding dread blindsides Crowley.

Aziraphale had been carefully distant since Crowley had told him about scouting the bookshop - he imagines, with terrible clarity, that since then he’d been in his own head, replaying all of their interactions - dissecting every moment to determine if he had been treated like a person, or a _target_.

He doesn’t understand how quickly things had changed after they met.

“S’not that simple,” Crowley says desperately. “Listen-”

“I suppose I should have put it together earlier,” Aziraphale continues. He fusses with a loose thread on his lapel, deliberately avoiding eye contact. “It was foolish that I didn’t. A willful blind spot.”

“ _Listen,_ ” Crowley says. “I didn’t do this for them - it was for me. I was bored, yeah, but more than that I came here because I was-”

His face feels hot with shame, but he can admit his mistakes if the alternative is devastating enough.

No more arguing semantics.

“I was - _lonely_. Christ, I was lonely,” he chokes out, and the admission burns all the way from his heart to his throat. “Then I met Anathema, and the group, and _you_.” Aziraphale stills, but doesn’t look up. “You were so obscenely thoughtful, and the most ridiculous bastard, and yeah, I needed information,” he hesitates, “but mostly I just - enjoyed your company. I wanted to be around you.”

Aziraphale sways slightly on the spot, staring into his glass.

“And when did you start feeling that way?”

“Honestly? By the end of that first night,” Crowley says, then adds hastily in an arch tone, “What can I say, listening to you lecture me about bookbinding for two hours _really_ got me going. I’ve simple tastes.”

Satan forbid he be earnest for too long. It was starting to make him feel itchy.

“Oh, come now,” Aziraphale chides weakly. He bites his lip, and Crowley thinks - hopes - he’s trying to fight back the beginning of a smile. “Don’t give me that.”

Crowley chances a grin, heartened. “Ah, well. The first part’s totally true, anyway.”

(Crowley does not elaborate on the degree of accuracy of the rest, but if he had, he’d clarify that while listening to Aziraphale indulge in something he was passionate about had in fact been appealing, what had truly occupied most of his attention was watching Aziraphale’s broad hands worshipfully caress worn, cracked leather. Not to mention when he had shyly taken Crowley’s wrist, encouraging him to gently drag his fingers over one of Aziraphale’s own well loved and beautifully restored tomes - it had been to admire the craftsmanship, obviously, but hell if Crowley hadn’t felt his skin burning when the man had let go. So, yes - it turned out bookbinding could be quite an alluring topic.)

“I mean it, though. Day one. You told me about how you kept customers out of the shop, remember? Those made up ghost stories, haunted books, all that. You were so pleased with yourself.” A fond laugh bubbles up at the memory, and he lets it. “And the way you reacted when I called you an angel. I’ll never forget that.”

Crowley finally does spot the small upturn of Aziraphale’s lips, and then it’s gone, filed away with the practiced ease of an upbringing of repression. Crowley feels a pang of regret mixed with a feeling of profound gratitude - gratitude that he’s had the privilege to not just have met Aziraphale, but to _know_ him.

How many people had Aziraphale allowed to know him in the same way?

Had Aziraphale been lonely, too?

Aziraphale returns to his chair and sinks down into it, scrubbing a hand over his face wearily. “So this,” he gestures between them, “is not for your assignment. Genuinely.”

“Yeah. Believe me, I heard it from Downstairs about getting distracted. It wasn’t in the plan.”

Aziraphale takes a generous drink and absently spins his pinky ring with his thumb.

“I’m not sure what to think. I just can’t make sense of it,” he says, voice rough.

Crowley softens. “You can talk to me,” he says quietly. “We’re on the same side.”

Aziraphale’s face twists painfully, gaze fixed on the floor. “What you are and the reality you inhabit is absolutely beyond my comprehension. I’ll never truly understand - not really. Not in a way that matters.”

He takes a short, sharp breath, chest rising and falling with increasing urgency as he goes on.

“People are so _fragile_ , Crowley. We struggle throughout our short lives and then we just _die_. I’ve spent far too much on therapy in my life to still believe that I’m going to Hell, and yet if I were to become an angel, we would be… well. That’s inconsequential. The average person doesn’t become a demon or an angel, do they? Most likely I’ll just be - gone.”

And you’ll still be here, he doesn’t say.

“So I don’t understand - why would you choose this?”

Why would you choose me, he doesn’t ask.

Aziraphale is working himself into a panic, and it’s clear to Crowley that he’s been thinking about this for far longer than just this conversation.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says firmly and Aziraphale finally looks up at him, wretchedly. Crowley drops to a knee in front of him to put them on the same level and takes his hands. “If this all goes pear shaped _none_ of us will be around much longer. Trust me, I’m very much living in the present. And presently, I’m here. With you.”

Aziraphale holds his gaze helplessly and swallows thickly.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says, softer. “If I hadn’t already fallen, you’d have done me in, no question. My reverence for your goodness is, well,” he wrinkles his nose thoughtfully, “it's pretty textbook blasphemy, really.”

“May you be forgiven,” Aziraphale manages, brokenly.

“Ah, well. That boat’s set sail.” Crowley grins ruefully. “Only forgiveness I care about now is yours.”

Aziraphale’s loosely woven composure finally unravels. He makes a small sound - something fragile, and honest - and pulls Crowley into a tight embrace. Crowley wraps his arms around him in return, and he’s overcome once again by that peculiar feeling of his wings encircling them both.

When they finally pull back and he opens his eyes, he’s surprised to find that they are.

Aziraphale wipes his eyes and exhales in wonder, carefully reaching out to run a knuckle along the sleek black feathers. “Oh, my dear,” he breathes. “They’re so beautiful.”

Warmth washes over Crowley at the gentle and adoring touch, tempering his surprise at them being there at _all_ \- another symptom of his faulty powers, he rationalizes, and decides they can wait - he folds the wings neatly along his back and gingerly slides his palms down Aziraphale’s arms to take his hands.

“Alright?”

Aziraphale nods, then pauses, then shakes his head.

“I wish you had informed me of all of this sooner,” he says quietly.

Crowley winces. “Ah, well. I didn’t want to…”

Complicate your life even further? Put you in danger?

Be vulnerable?

“S’just a lot, isn’t it,” he grumbles. “I’ve already asked so much of you.”

Aziraphale quirks a brow. “Dear, this isn’t _your_ fault. It may injure your ego to consider, but this would be happening whether you were here helping us or if we were on our own, and I much prefer our chances in this scenario.”

Crowley bows his head, chastened, and finds his eyes drawn to the line of golden feathers on Aziraphale’s signet ring. Of course. Aziraphale is overwhelmingly fair. He hadn’t hated him for being a demon, and he didn’t hate him for this. He wouldn’t hold things outside of Crowley’s control against him.

He will render to each one according to his works.

Crowley frowns at the feathered ring in thought. What was that, Romans? He thinks of his own stained wings, and wonders if She often follows Her own advice.

“I want to trust you, Crowley - I think I can - but you haven’t been forthcoming. I need to know what is happening here. _Everything_ ,” he says, and Crowley looks up apologetically, meeting his gaze again. “Whether you like it or not, I’m a part of this. I always have been.” He allows himself a wry smile. “After all, it seems my bookshop has been chosen as the set for the apocalypse, has it not?”

Crowley knows that he’s right. As much as he wishes Aziraphale could avoid getting pulled further into this mess, he can’t _not_ be involved. His shop, his _home_ , is at the center of so many converging paths. At this point, if Crowley isn’t keeping him informed - if he willfully keeps him in ignorance - he’s potentially putting him in more danger.

It’s not even a choice, really.

He swallows around the tightness in his throat. “Well, then. We’ve got a demon, a witch, a bibliophile, and the first go at the Antichrist against all the forces of Hell. What could possibly go wrong?”

Aziraphale finally, truly smiles.

“It sounds like the setup for a rather unfortunate joke.”

Crowley grins. “Does, doesn’t it? Very unfortunate.”

Aziraphale squeezes his hand. “Well, it appears that I suddenly have quite a bit of work ahead of me, going through my catalogue and seeing if I can’t find something to aid our cause. As much as I love you on your knees, dear, we’d best get a wiggle on.”

“You - _what_ ,” Crowley chokes.

“I said we’d best get a wiggle on,” Aziraphale repeats innocently.

“I heard that, it was the - y’know what,” Crowley throws his hands up and stands. “Not the time. Also, rude.”

It’s entirely unfair that he can say, straight faced, after a conversation like _that,_ something so suggestive and ‘wiggle on’ in the same sentence and it _still_ works on Crowley. He’d fancied himself as rather cool once upon a time - a time before he started getting so easily flustered by this ridiculous bow tie wearing, velvet vest having, tartan loving human.

Aziraphale regards him and his awful, traitorous blush slyly. Oh, he absolutely knows that he’s actively ruining Crowley’s life.

Cheek.

“To work, then,” Aziraphale says chipperly. He gets to his feet, then looks over Crowley’s shoulder regretfully. “Your wings are stunning, dear, but they may make navigating the shop a tad difficult.”

“Oh? Maybe I’ll just keep them out, then,” Crowley says, mimicking his pleasant tone. “Might give you some divine inspiration to tidy the place up for once.”

“God forbid,” Aziraphale says, mildly scandalized. “No, that won’t do at all. Pip pip, toodle-oo, all of those pleasantries and whatnot,” he says dismissively, making a shooing motion at the wings, and Crowley laughs and wills them away.

They shiver for a moment and stubbornly remain.

Crowley’s laughter dies out.

Aziraphale blinks. “Something wrong, dear?”

Crowley opens his mouth to say ‘no,’ then closes it again.

Right. Maybe he should be honest after spending the last hour or so having a conversation about just that. Working on trust, and all.

Just say yes. Easy. He can do that.

Just say-

“No,” he says flatly, then hisses. “Wait, ssshit. _Yesss_. I mean, yes.”

Aziraphale looks at him with something between confusion and affection, apparently having enjoyed whatever journey he just witnessed on Crowley’s face. “So are you or are you not having trouble with your wings?”

“I am,” Crowley admits reluctantly. “My powers have been, er, finicky as of late. I mean, I still have them, they’ve just been… off.”

Aziraphale frowns. “My goodness. Off how, exactly?”

Crowley thinks of the tartan collar and his eyes flick down to Aziraphale’s bow tie.

“Oh… minor things,” he says, an octave too high. “Results slightly off. Anathema mentioned she might know what’s going on, so I’m sure we’ll get it sorted-”

He cuts himself off with a rather unflattering yelp as his wings abruptly fold and snap back into the aether. It’s not painful, but it is unexpected and lacks the control he usually exerts - it happens like a crack rather than a wave. He glares hotly over his shoulder at where his wings had been, personally affronted by their behaviour and mentally admonishing them for it.

Aziraphale looks visibly concerned when he turns back, and glances meaningfully towards the pocket he keeps his phone in. “Maybe you should have that chat with her sooner rather than later?”

Crowley mutters something about his feelings on even _more_ talking as he irritably replaces his sunglasses and pulls out his phone to text Anathema. Just as he’s hitting send, he hears Aziraphale gasp.

Crowley glances up from the screen to see the other man’s face filled with delight. He narrows his eyes. “What? What’s that look for?”

Aziraphale clasps his hands to his chest, beaming at Crowley. “Those parcels weren’t meant to come to the shop, were they?”

Crowley’s not sure why he seems so giddy over it. He’d just been complaining about them.

“No, they weren’t,” Crowley says carefully.

Aziraphale's smile turns absurdly coy and Crowley squints harder, possibly on the verge of manifesting literal question marks in the air around him - it’s unclear if the fact that his powers aren’t listening to him makes this more or less likely - but his phone buzzes and he gratefully takes the out, glancing at his screen.

“Uh, right,” he says slowly. “Anathema is ready. I’ll be off then, shall I?”

“Of course. I’ll take a look at what I can find here,” Aziraphale says warmly.

He glimpses up at Aziraphale, hesitates, then nods. “Yep. Alright. Later,” he says lamely, starting towards the door.

“Crowley?”

He immediately turns around.

A warm hand slides over the back of his neck to pull him in, and then Aziraphale’s lips are on his. He leans into it without hesitation, melting against him - Aziraphale’s touch is tender with something like understanding, and a message that says _we’re okay,_ and Crowley feels lighter when they pull away.

Aziraphale’s hand on his neck slides to his chest and rests there, reluctant to be parted. “I’m sorry, my dear,” he murmurs. “I shouldn’t have suggested earlier that you wouldn’t care because of what you are. It was unfair.”

Crowley furrows his brow. “What? No, angel, you shouldn’t be apologizing-”

“I should, and am,” he says firmly. “I said it out of hurt and I regret it. I need you to know that I don’t actually feel that way,” he says, gentler. “I know you better than that.”

Crowley wants to object - it’s not like he doesn’t frequently say and think worse things about himself - but relents. “‘Course. It’s fine.”

Aziraphale presses a soft kiss to his jaw. “Thank you.” He finally takes a step back, but the space between them doesn’t feel so vast anymore. “Oh, and pick up some takeaway on your way home, will you? Research can make me quite peckish. I’ve been thinking about that Vietnamese restaurant near Anathema’s flat recently, you know the one, their pho is outstanding - since you’ll be in the area anyway, I thought…”

Crowley listens, as much as he can listen with one particular word echoing in his head.

Home.

“Well, what do you think? Would you mind terribly nipping in there on your way back?”

Crowley smiles. “Anything, angel.”

—

Anathema tells Crowley the theory she’d put together before they were interrupted at the shop, and he laughs in her face.

Uncalled for? Probably.

The only reaction he can manage in the face of such a ludicrous idea? Absolutely.

Honestly, he thinks that it’s a joke until she doesn't join in on his (admittedly on the wrong side of unhinged) cackle, instead looking incredibly put out by his (admittedly rather rude) reaction.

When it begins to dawn on him that she’s serious, the laughter abruptly dies in his throat.

He stares, the lines of his face slowly flattening in disbelief. “No,” he says plainly. “Absolutely not.”

“You don’t know that,” she huffs irritably. “Just because you don’t want to believe it doesn’t mean it’s not a sensible hypothesis.”

“Anathema,” he hisses, “it is not a sensible hypothesis, because what you are saying is that I’m some sort of,” he gestures wildly as he tries to find the words, “some sort of bloody - _demonic Disney princess_.”

“Okay, that’s not even close to what I said,” Anathema groans in exasperation. “Just consider it for one literal second, please.”

“Nope,” he says stubbornly, crossing his arms and sinking in his seat the way that generally makes onlookers question what his spine is made of, or if it exists at all - in fact, the movement might be better described as melting. “I refuse to devote a single brain cell to this. It’s ridiculous. You’re ridiculous.”

Anathema closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. With a steady exhale, she pinches her fingers together in front of her and pulls downwards, presumably manifesting inner peace or imagining a world where she doesn’t leap up and exorcise a certain ill-mannered demon from her flat. The gesture brings to mind the pulling down of a window shade, shuttering what is inside. A window shade of tranquility. A window shade with I AM FINE printed in large sunny letters facing outwards, accentuated with a smiley face and a few garish flowers.

She opens her eyes and smiles mildly, which feels astronomically more threatening than her previous frustration.

“This is the current working theory because we _have_ no other theories,” she says, upspeaking with the effort of civility. “If you would like to add to the conversation instead of being a petulant ass, I would welcome your input. _However_ , you barely heard me out before you disregarded the idea. Maybe the way I described it was a little off-”

“We agree on that much, then.”

“Shut up. I just meant something that feels different from occult magic.”

“I think the word you’re looking for is ethereal.” Crowley, uncannily, sinks further into his chair. He scoffs. “The way you’re putting it sounds like how Aziraphale would describe it when we-”

“Nope,” Anathema cuts in. “Don’t wanna hear that. Hate that, actually.”

Crowley grins wickedly. “If I remember correctly, you were the one asking _me_ if I could do _love magic_ ,” he drawls.

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” she snorts, trying to look displeased and failing with a charming smile. “Come on. I think I’m really onto something with this.”

Crowley sighs exaggeratedly. “Fine. I’ll listen. Just think of something else to call it, for Satan’s sake. I can’t take you seriously.”

“Fine, fine, but I don’t think it’s ethereal. Love seemed like the most fitting term, seeing as I think it has to do with that aura Adam’s built around the bookshop.”

“Ah. Definitely not ethereal, then. We both know where his powers come from.” Crowley clicks his tongue thoughtfully, picking up her train of thought. “You think that aura is disturbing my powers? Changing them, maybe?”

Anathema nods. “It’s sort of like two stations trying to broadcast on the same wavelength, right? Except - er, no offence - Adam’s signal is much more powerful than yours. So, it makes sense that it might start, I don’t know, messing around.”

“Messing around.”

Anathema shrugs. “Maybe it’s suppressing what it senses as a negative influence. I mean, you do have a demonic aura, even if you are actually a huge sap.”

Crowley scoffs indignantly. “Excuse me? I’m a demon, I don’t do _sap_.”

Anathema gives him a look that roughly translates to ‘sure, buddy’ and continues over his protests. “Anyway, I think the best way to test my theory is if you spend some time away from the shop. See if that gets better control of your powers. You do still have your own flat, right?”

“Of course I do,” Crowley grumbles. “What kind of question is that?”

Anathema arches a perfect brow at his tone. “Alright, no need to get defensive. Just making sure. You are at the bookshop an awful lot.”

Underneath the rancor, he feels a pathetic pang of distress at the notion of being barred from the shop. It occurs to him that since he’d met Aziraphale, the longest they’d been apart was when he had attended the torturous seminar in Hell for two weeks - other than that, it had been at most a few days at a time.

Nowadays, Crowley dedicates his nights and mornings firmly to Aziraphale. 

He covets each ephemeral moment they share like the shining, precious things they are. At night Crowley will drape himself around the other man like a particularly long limbed blanket, indulging in their closeness and basking in his warmth like Aziraphale is his handsome personal furnace. In the mornings they work fluidly around each other as they brew their preferred modes of caffeination and Aziraphale makes his breakfast, a well polished routine after many recitals together in that small, cozy kitchen.

He drinks each moment in, knowing no recollection could ever be as sweet but trying his damndest to commit the details to memory anyway.

The shape of eager bruises on his hips and the weight of Aziraphale’s arm slung over his chest. The brush of their bodies as Crowley slides past Aziraphale in the crowded spaces of his flat and shop. Aziraphale’s dismay when he stubbornly attempts, once again out of innumerable times, to flip his eggs in the air and they fall into the burner, and their giddy panic as Crowley frantically waves a tea towel at the screeching smoke detector, and laughing.

Laughing, and the way it crinkles the edges of Aziraphale’s eyes - sometimes stormy grey, and sometimes startlingly blue.

Even if Aziraphale doesn’t decide that Crowley is more trouble than he’s worth, even if Hell doesn’t discover Crowley’s plans and end his existence, even if they manage to thwart Armageddon, time will still eventually catch up with them.

He’d pushed through his own feeling of heartsick when Aziraphale had brought up the same point earlier - couldn’t spare the time to let it wash over him when he had to reach out and smooth the worried lines of Aziraphale’s face - and finally feels the tide of it advancing on him.

Their time is finite. Despite all of his tricks, all his power, despite possessing the ability to _temporarily_ stop time, he didn’t have a solution for the slow, inevitable drip of it, steadily wearing away at the human that Crowley had - forgive the figure of speech - rather completely, devastatingly fallen for.

Anathema’s expression softens, if not noticing him spiral, then knowing him well enough that it’s a safe bet he would.

“You know I just mean having some distance from the shop, right? He can still visit you.”

“Yeah. Yeah.” Crowley musses his hair with an impatient growl, willing the tide to recede and attempting to steer his thoughts in a safer direction. “He, uh - he’s going to hate my flat, you know.”

Aziraphale had yet to visit. He’d certainly shown interest, but Crowley would always deflect, too aware of the shortcomings of his home, if he can even call it that. It’s more like a haunt, really, than a home. Even before spending more time at the bookshop, Crowley could barely describe himself as _living_ at his own flat. It was just the most likely place he’d go to occasionally put his head down at the end of the day.

Then a much softer, more bookish option had presented itself.

“You say that like he’s going to combust as soon as he walks in the door or something.”

Anathema is obviously joking, trying to ease his mood.

Crowley worries about it anyway, as he is wont to do.

He does have a number of demonic wards surrounding and inside the place, plus Hell often contacts him there, not to mention his own demonic aura lingering about - he imagines it might feel cold and potentially eerie to a human, but the threat of exploding seems low.

Anathema stares at him, finally starting to look a little worried. “Please don’t tell me you actually had to think about that. What on earth is wrong with your flat?”

“Well, s’kind of a demonic lair, right? Lots of Hellish energy making it all, ehm, spooky. You know, giving humans the chills and all that.” He thinks of Aziraphale’s penchant for layers, the heavy duvets on his bed, and the delightful, affronted squawk he makes when Crowley sometimes snakes his cool hands under his shirt in the morning to wake him up. “He doesn’t like being cold.”

“Demonic lair,” Anathema snorts. “Look, don’t worry too much about it. If you could walk into the bookshop without bursting into flames, I’m positive Aziraphale will be fine. I’m sure he’s going to love your Batcave.”

“S’not a _cave_ ,” Crowley objects, moreso out of principle considering the inhospitable concrete construction of his apartment speaks more to a cave than a place someone would intentionally choose to spend any amount of time in, including Crowley himself, evidently.

Anathema rolls her eyes fondly, then pauses, expression sobering. “I’m sorry. I know this sucks.”

Crowley shrugs in a way he hopes comes off as casual.

Anathema sighs. “If we’re going to try this we should talk to Adam soon, seeing as our plan is to talk to him at the shop. He’s been doing really well, but I still think it’ll be a stabilizing influence should anything go wrong.”

“Alright. Just tell me when.”

“We can probably bring the kids to the city on the weekend,” Anathema says thoughtfully, taking out her phone and flipping through her calendar. “That gives you a couple days before we start testing that theory. What do you think?”

While the shop feels like home in a way no where else ever has for him, he knows logically that it’s not just the building that’s home. It’s Aziraphale, and Anathema is right, it’s not like he’s tethered to the shop. He can visit Crowley’s flat. They can go literally anywhere else, together.

Certainly by the end of this, avoiding the shop will be one of the least unpleasant things that Crowley has to do in the name of averting the apocalypse.

It’s not exactly a comforting thought, but at least it makes this part - or rather, parting - easier.

“Sounds fine,” he says, and is fairly certain that he means it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to my wonderful beta North ([Northisnotup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Northisnotup/pseuds/Northisnotup)) for always helping me make my work so much better! This chapter contains a silly reference to her absolutely beautiful and sweet Penumbra Podcast proposal fic [Rita's Blessing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27203855/chapters/66448628) which y'all should read if you're a fan of TPP, fantastic writing, and/or wholesome content!! If u can point out the reference there is no prize but it DOES mean you read two cool fics and isn't that just the best reward


End file.
